


sunshine through the rain and snow

by someotherstorm (rumbrave)



Series: sunshine through the rain and snow [1]
Category: Justified
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-27
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-19 17:11:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/575650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumbrave/pseuds/someotherstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim Gutterson planned to spend the holidays catching up on back issues of <i>Guns and Ammo</i>, watching a few Netflix movies and drinking a Shiner Bock or two -- it's not exactly a Hallmark Christmas Special, but close enough. What he gets instead is something in between a John Denver song, a Kid Rock album, and a pay-per-view adult feature on the <i>Spice Channel</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the usual suspects for reading this work-in-progress and convincing me to just start posting it, already <333 ilu ladies! title from "bilgewater" by _brown bird_ , a fantastic band everyone should listen to :D

Art calls him at the office at seven-thirty on a Friday night, two days before Christmas.

“Gutterson, I’m glad I caught you,” he says hurriedly, the sound of family chatter in the background and hints of North Carolina in his accent. “I need to get in touch with Deputy Givens and get him to sign something he should have signed back in August, so I can fax it back to the DC office and avoid the substantial fine we’re gonna get if he doesn’t.”

Art’s annoyance with Raylan comes across more like an afterthought than anything. Which tells Tim he’s the one who forgot to get Raylan to sign the form in the first place.

“Did you try forwarding it to him in his email?”

“You can _do_ that?”

Tim casts his eyes upwards and decides not to point out the time Art asked one of the admins to make a copy of something before they faxed it for him. “Hasn’t checked his email, I take it.”

“Now it is good to hear that the holiday season hasn’t affected that penetrating analysis of yours, Gutterson. No, he hasn’t, and I can’t reach him by cell, either. I have the address where he’s at -- I just need you to find it, see if you can locate a land line or some number where I can reach him.”

“Sure thing, boss.” He minimizes the eBay site he’s been browsing and opens up their database to enter the address, which is somewhere in Gatlinburg. That surprises him; for some reason he thought Raylan was in Harlan. “It looks like these are vacation rentals.”

“You mean he didn’t move there? There goes my one and only Christmas wish. You got a number?”

Tim finds a rental number listed on the property. “You want me to call him?”

“Nah, I’ll do it. But thanks. And Tim?”

“Yes, sir?”

“What the hell are you doing in that office on a Friday night? It’s almost Christmas, son.”

Tim leans back in his chair, looking around at the empty office. Most of his colleagues are on leave for the holiday, and it’s just him and two new marshals who were recently assigned to Lexington. Sanderson and Hawkins were still on their initial six month probation, meaning they’d be working holidays until they gained a little more seniority, but they were both already home for the evening. 

He and Rachel were technically both on-call, and while at least one of them had to be within so many miles of the office in case of emergency, neither one of them were physically required to be in the office. Rachel had taken the day off to finish her holiday shopping. Tim didn’t relish the idea of sitting at home in his apartment with back issues of _Guns and Ammo_ and a few Netflix movies -- he had to save something for the weekend -- so he was here, at work. But he couldn’t exactly tell Art that.

“The Internet is faster here.”

Art doesn’t miss a beat. “Fine, but if you’re looking at porn, make sure you delete the cupcakes or whatever the hell. I don’t even want to know what the fine for that _and_ Raylan’s non-disclosure penalty is going to be. Now get the hell out of there and have a goddamn merry Christmas, all right?”

Tim can hear the sounds of someone calling for Art in the background, asking if he wants iced tea or wine with dinner and to hurry up and get off the phone. “Will do, sir. You, too.”

When Art hangs up, Tim thinks about leaving. He also thinks about how he’s probably going to be eating dinner at the Skyline Chili two blocks from his apartment, under the harsh fluorescent lighting, with all the other lonely people who didn’t have anywhere else to be.

_Would you rather your old man still be alive so you could have dinner with him?_ Sometimes it’s good to remember that this is actually an improvement over holidays when he was growing up. He’ll take Skyline Chili over that, any day. Hell, he’d take _Afghanistan_ over that.

It occurs to him that, seeing as how he’s single with no family obligations to speak of, he could have taken a trip somewhere. A resort in Jamaica, a cruise, a tour of someplace exotic like China or Thailand -- the latter as long as he didn’t go on one of those trips he’d have to arrest himself for when he got back.

Or, hey. Gatlinburg.

“Who the hell goes to Gatlinburg?” Tim asks his empty office, and startles when the phone rings again. “It was a hypothetical question,” he says, eyeing the phone before answering it. “Deputy Gutterson.”

“Didn’t I tell you to leave?”

“I was just on my way, sir,” Tim lies. “Was there something else you needed?”

Art sounds a lot more annoyed than last time, and there is a distinct lack of chatter in the background. “The number you gave me, it was a land line that went straight to voice mail. The message said if you were calling about the rental cabin in Gatlinburg, leave a message with your date request and someone would get back to you next Thursday. I’m guessing it was the owners, and they’re out of town, too. Thought there might be a number for a neighbor or something.”

Tim calls up the database and inputs the address again. “Sorry, sir, it’s a pretty secluded area. Looks like it’s actually up in the mountains, so there’s nothing really around for about forty miles.”

Art swears under his breath. “How come any _other_ time I want Raylan to take a vacation somewhere I can’t find him, he just shoots a guy or ends up involved in a hillbilly mob war? Can you answer that question for me, Deputy Gutterson?”

“Ah...no, sir, I’m afraid I can’t. You want me to find a local law enforcement agency or something? Maybe they could send someone out there.”

“Hell, no,” Art says hastily. He sounds a little embarrassed, which suggests the oversight really _was_ Art’s fault in the first place. If it were Raylan’s, he’d totally tell Tim to call out the police and interrupt Raylan’s vacation. Tim’s sure of it. “I guess my only option is to rent a car and drive to Gatlinburg, so I can tell Raylan to check his email in person.”

Tim clears his throat. “I’d probably take the form with you, sir. It sounds like he’s too far out of range to access any wireless services.”

“I am not too irritated at Raylan that I can’t be pissed at you for being a smart ass, Gutterson. Don’t suppose you could Mapquest me the directions from Raleigh to wherever the hell Raylan’s holed up, could you? Something tells me when I tell Sheila what I’m doing, I won’t have a lot of time if I want to get out of this house without her decapitating me with a butter knife.”

Tim opens his Internet browser again, navigates to Google Maps and puts in the address where Raylan’s staying in the _destination_ field, with Raleigh as the starting point. “Looks like it’s about a five-and-a-half hour drive from Raleigh.”

“All right, I guess if I left now I could be back sometime Christmas Eve. Hang on,” Art says hastily, and Tim listens uncomfortably as Art tries to muffle the sound of an obvious argument with his wife. He clearly doesn’t know where the microphone on his cell phone is, though, because Tim can still hear him. 

Art is trying to tell her that it’s not that long, just a few hours and he’ll be back. Sheila’s voice is a bit muffled, but Tim can tell what her objections are from Art’s responses. Yes, Art knows how long this family get-together has been planned. Yes, she’s always been very supportive about his job throughout the years. No, he can’t call anyone in DC about the form and no, there’s no one else he can ask to do it.

Tim thinks about the movies on his counter, the upcoming weekend where he’ll more than likely spend it at the office. He erases the starting location and puts in _Lexington_ instead of Raleigh.

Three hours and forty-eight minutes. Barely anything. Tim can hear the tension in Art’s voice, thinks about the happy chatter and the family dinner that’s no doubt being help up so Art can make his phone call. Tim clears his throat. “Sir?”

“Just a second, Gutterson --”

“I can go.” Tim clicks open his work email program. “It’s not a problem. Email me the form and I’ll print it off, take it to Raylan to sign and fax it back.”

“I can’t ask you to do that, son.” Art’s voice is firm. “Maybe my subtle indications haven’t clued you in, but this was my fuck up, not Raylan’s.”

“I won’t tell you if you won’t,” Tim intones seriously, settling back in his chair. “Look at it this way. It’ll give me a reason to get out of the office, like you wanted. _And_ you can still be happy about Raylan on vacation where no one can find him. It’s like I saved Christmas.”

“If I come back and you start calling me the Grinch, you’re fired.”

Tim laughs. “I don’t have any plans. Rachel invited me to have dinner with her family on Sunday, but I should be back by then and if I’m not, she’ll understand. She’ll be in on-call range, though, so it’s fine. Go spend time with your family.”

Art’s quiet for a moment. “I owe you one, Tim. Thank you.”

Tim doesn’t know how to tell Art that really, it’s the other way around. 

Art tells him to take a company car, which TIm was already planning on doing anyway. While he waits for the email, he programs the address into his phone’s GPS and searches for a hotel on Expedia. Because he fully plans on being reimbursed, he splurges for a Hampton Inn with three stars instead of the Econolodge.

Maybe he’ll stay in Gatlinburg Saturday night and spend Christmas in the Smoky Mountains. It’ll be like a John Denver song, only with different mountains.

Tim prints off the email and forwards it to his personal account just in case, tucks the papers in a folder and grabs his coat. He takes the nicest car they have, because what the hell. It’s Christmas.

* * *  
He stops at Skyline Chili after he stops at home to pack a bag, and eats dinner while flipping through his issue of _Guns and Ammo_. The lighting seems cheerful instead of harsh, and he feels purposeful instead of lonely.

It’s probably not a good sign that his entire outlook on life just brightened considerably because he has to work, but it’s better than watching _Act of Valour_ and eating a turkey sandwich with a six-pack of Shiner Bock, his one concession to home for the holidays.

Why’d they make a movie starring SEALs, anyway? They’ve got enough of an ego problem as it is, and besides, isn’t that what actors are for? All the Rangers had was one of those fundraising calendars, with socially awkward sharp-shooters positioned on barrels and leaning against tanks (which doesn’t make any sense, but whatever), bare-chested and looking uncomfortable.

Speaking of uncomfortable, he should remember not to bring the _Guns and Ammo_ magazine in a restaurant with table service. The waitress looks at him warily and asks him four times if he’s all right or if he needs anything else. No wonder he can’t get a date, Jesus.

Maybe he should get a subscription to _Soldier of Fortune_. The title sounds a lot more exciting.

* * *  
Tim tries calling Raylan twice -- once, before he leaves the office, and again before he leaves his house. The first time he leaves a message, the second, he doesn’t.

As he heads towards the hotel, he turns off his phone. He tells himself it’s to save batteries, but he knows the real reason. He doesn’t want Raylan to call and tell him not to come.

Right around the time he passes London, Kentucky, it starts to snow.

* * *  
He gets to the hotel two hours later, leaving him with less than two hours to drive in the morning. The snow is coming down harder, and he’s glad he decided to stop.

Tim’s from Texas. Snow is a mythical, strange thing and driving in it is a skill he doesn’t yet possess. He checks in at the desk, where a pretty, friendly girl with blonde hair and green eyes smiles at him and tells him the room comes with free cable.

“That’s great,” Tim says, sincerely, handing her back the form with his vehicle make and model.

Something like irritation flashes in her eyes at his tone. “Yeah, well, a lot of places only give you free HBO,” she tells him, her earlier friendliness replaced by the sort of professionalism that suggests you are being an irritating customer.

Tim realizes she mistook his appreciation as sarcasm, which happens him to a lot. Maybe it’s not his choice in magazines that ruins his chances with girls. “No, I mean it -- that’s great. Really.”

She pushes the keycard towards him. “You’re in three sixteen,” she says, and turns away. “Have a nice stay.”

The room is nice and clean, with something called “premium bedding” that involves a very fluffy comforter and more pillows than seem reasonable. Tim kicks off his shoes and plugs in his phone, expelling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when he notices he doesn’t have any messages.

It’s late but he doesn’t feel like sleeping, so he turns on the television -- as if enjoying the free cable will make up for his perceived indifference. There’s a show about guns on the Discovery Channel and a soft-core porn movie on Cinemax.

Tim watches the porn, which is even worse than _real_ porn because the actors aren’t having real, actual sex to pretend to enjoy. So it’s a lot of moaning and posturing and simulated blow-jobs, women grinding on men’s laps and on each other, and no one is really getting off. He wonders how they know when to stop.

Tim gets a hand on himself and watches, waiting for it to get him at least a little hard. He’s a young, healthy adult male and the girls are topless and moaning, this should really be enough. It takes a little while but eventually it is, and his breathing gets a little faster, heat pooling in his stomach. He’s thinking about the girl from the front desk, about the pretty waitress from Skyline. Both of them, together. Both of them together with _him_.

That thought is particularly nice. It’s been awhile since anyone’s touched him, and the thought of all those hands and soft curves gets his eyes closing, his hips pushing up into his hand. Maybe this time it’s going to be all right.

As soon as he thinks that, it happens -- that thing that has been happening with increasing frequency since he got out of the Rangers. Behind his closed eyes he sees guns and blood and bullets -- a gruesome parade of men he’s killed from across the street, men who never even knew he was there. The more he tries to ignore the images, the more insistent they become -- now featuring people he knows.

First it’s the waitress from Skyline, and then the girl at the front desk. Terrified and screaming and he tries to make the images go back to the hot things but they won’t, all he can see is death, blood, faces and skulls obliterated from bullets. Moans turn into screams, desperate pleas for him not to kill them.

Tim opens his eyes, frustrated and sickened and annoyed with himself for thinking it would be any different in some Hampton Inn than in his own bed. Lately, every time he’s tried to get off it goes just about the same way. Sometimes, like now, he can stop himself. Other times, physical necessity takes over and he can’t. Those are the worst.

It only happened every so often at first, but it was enough to end his last relationship with a girl he’d met at the gym. She was graduate student, two years older than him and a few years older than her fellow students. Emily left a well-paying but miserable job to pursue a Ph.D. in Medieval History, and was nearly finished when he met her. She was happy and fun and lively, and Tim liked her very much.

She was also very hot and into sex, which he also liked very much. Until those disturbing images started filtering in and he couldn’t stop them, no matter how hard he tried. He started avoiding sex, and then he started avoiding anything physical at all because it was just making him want what his brain apparently wouldn’t let him have.

Eventually she started avoiding _him_ and stopped taking his calls. He heard that she finished her PhD and moved to Michigan. He never told her about the disturbing thoughts he’d had, because he’d never told her what he did in the Army. So she probably left thinking she’d done something, which she hadn’t. Tim wasn’t good with words or expressing his emotions, qualities that were taken and honed by the Rangers so he could do his job. You didn’t want emotional snipers. The problem was when he came home he wasn’t a sniper anymore, but there was no _off_ button for being emotionally repressed.

A few times he tried dating again, but it always ended the same way. For a while after he was assigned to Lexington, he had a few successful one-night stands or casual encounters, but even those stopped being possible a few months ago. So he did what he was trained to do and locked it all down and away, didn’t think about it and hoped it would go away.

It isn’t going away.

Tim takes a few breaths until his heart calms down and turns on the Discovery Channel. The show about guns is telling him how rifles were manufactured in Russia during the first World War. He falls asleep somewhere in the middle of it, and when he wakes up, the world is covered in snow.

* * *  
His two hour drive to Gatlinburg becomes a nightmarish, six-hour trek up the Smoky Mountains.

Raylan still hasn’t called, but Tim can understand why -- he loses cell phone reception the further he gets into the mountains. It’s nerve-wracking and stressful, but luckily those are two things Tim knows how to deal with. He concentrates on the slow methodical pace and keeping himself from being snow hypnotized, focusing not on getting to Raylan’s but on getting around the next curve, the next mile of roadway.

He stops three times to help stranded motorists, once to change a tire and twice to help pull them out of ditches. The roadways become steadily less traveled as he continues, and his only moment of true frustration comes when he’s in Cherokee, Tennessee -- a small town built around Native American stereotypes, apparently -- and the man at the gas station says he should probably find a room and wait out the storm.

“When is it supposed to stop?” Tim asks, buying a Coke and some coffee and, though he doesn’t usually smoke, a pack of cigarettes. And a Milky Way. This is how he always imagined college students ate.

“Don’t rightly know. But not soon.”

That’s not really an answer, but Tim thanks him anyway and takes his purchases out to the SUV. It’s all gassed up and ready to go, and he’s got food, water, and this is a US Marshal vehicle so it has a roadside safety kit, including a warm blanket and road flares. Tim is a soldier, he’s been to war.

He can drive through Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, goddamn it.

At the last minute, Tim goes inside and gets a turkey sandwich and a six pack of beer. It’s not Shiner but that’s all right, it counts.

If he ends up eating turkey sandwiches and having a beer while snowed in on the highway and sleeping in his SUV --

That’s less a John Denver song, a more a Hank Williams one. Hank Williams the Second, that is. The one that sucks.

* * *

Tim learns one important lesson about driving in a blizzard, which is _don’t_.

And if you really insist on it, definitely _don’t do it at night_.

He’s fairly sure he’s going to be spending the night in the car, an opportunity that he both relishes for the adventurousness of it and dreads because it’s fucking cold. This is the South, why is it snowing like this?

He’d reached Gatlinburg, which in itself was a miracle. But instead of stopping and getting a place to stay like a sensible person, Tim kept driving -- out of the small city, away from the warmth and the lights, on the dark roads that lead further into the mountains. He can sleep in the car if he needs to, it’s fine.

But the roads are winding and he quickly realizes there’s nowhere to pull over because there’s no shoulder, and while he hasn’t passed a car for miles and miles, he can’t just stop in the middle of the road and sleep.

He hopes Art’s _I owe you one_ will cover the fact he’s smoking in the SUV. He’ll claim he needed to do it to keep from freezing to death, maybe.

Just when he’s starting to think through how he could fashion a tent out of his duffel bag, the rough blanket and the folder and papers on the passenger seat (sorry, Art), he sees a road sign and realizes, with some degree of shock, that it says _Birds Creek Road_.

His phone doesn’t get any service but Tim is very, very good at remembering directions and this is the road where Raylan’s cabin is located. Sure, it’s a good two miles down the road which takes him close to an hour, but he’s still almost there.

Raylan better have some food. He’s regretting not buying two of those turkey sandwiches at the gas station, he’s fucking starving and he ate the other one an hour ago. So much for Christmas dinner.

He has no idea if the cabin is nice or not. All he cares is that it’s not the SUV, and it’s not on the road, and there’s maybe a bathroom and something for dinner that doesn’t come out of a package. Tim throws the duffel over his shoulder, grabs the folder and his six pack of beer (untouched, he’s a federal marshal, thank you) and trudges through the snow to the front door.

He wonders how much snow there is. Probably sixteen feet -- it can’t be any less than that, surely. He knocks on the door and for the first time, he wonders if Raylan’s even there. Maybe he’s in Harlan, playing town sheriff and fighting bad guys and giving false addresses to his boss, because his boss wanted him to get lost over the holiday.

Shit. _Shit_. If that’s true, Tim is going to get in the SUV, drive to Harlan, and beat Raylan to death with the goddamn folder. He knocks again, louder, and this time he yells sharply, “Open up, US Marshals,” because goddamn it, it’s the truth and he is really, really cold.

The door opens and there’s Raylan, in jeans and an undershirt -- what the actual hell, is he not human, it’s _freezing_ \-- and his hair’s messy, and he looks like maybe Tim’s unexpected appearance interrupted him from something.

It never occurred to Tim that Raylan might not be here alone. So much for that -- what did Art call it, _penetrating analysis_? Yeah.

“Gutterson?” At any other time, Tim would have cracked the fuck up at the look on Raylan’s face. “You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me.”

“Evening, Raylan,” Tim drawls, or tries to -- it’s not easy with all the teeth-chattering. “I was in the neighborhood and I thought I’d stop by. Can I come in, or...?”

Raylan is still staring at him, blocking the doorway with his ridiculously tall frame. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Freezing to death,” Tim snaps, and decides to stop being polite, shouldering past him into the cabin and the blessed, blessed warmth. “I’m here because Art needs you to sign something or else our whole office gets fined, I don’t know, I didn’t ask the particulars and I didn’t read the papers because they were boring.”

He drops the duffel on the floor and sets the beer down gently, and starts taking off his shoes. “We called you about seventeen, eighteen thousand times and Art sent you email after email, but we didn’t hear from you.”

Raylan’s mouth quirks. “I bet the emails are in all caps, huh.”

“It’s like he doesn’t know that you can type emails without pressing that key.” Tim shakes his head, finishes with his boots and stands up with the beer in one hand and the folder in another. “He’s in North Carolina, so I volunteered to drive up here and find you. It was only supposed to take three, four hours.”

“I’m on _vacation_ ,” Rylan snaps, and Tim doesn’t have much of a temper but that riles up whatever he’s got and a little extra.

“Gee, Raylan, I am _so sorry_ that I volunteered my time to come up here and bring you this form --” He raises the hand with the folder, waves it at him, “-- so we don’t get penalized, drove through a blizzard _and_ brought you some beer.” He raises the beer and waves it, too, somewhat more gently.

Predictably, Rayan grabs the beer and ignores the folder. “Why do you care if we get a _fine_ , you gotta pay it personally? And there had to have been places for you to stop when it was obvious there was a blizzard, or did you think all this snow was normal?”

“The point is that I’m here,” he tells Raylan, shouldering his duffel. “And I’m going to change clothes and have a shower and you’re going to let me rummage for something to eat because I’m starving, then I’ll catch a few hours of sleep on your couch and head back into Gatlinburg and leave you to your horrible, isolated, mountain cabin of doom vacation.”

He turns and starts walking, not sure where he’s going but he’s not standing in the foyer. The door’s shut but he can _feel_ the cold out there, and he wants to be as far away from it as possible.

“Tim? I ain’t exactly here alone,” Raylan tells him, hurrying past him so he’s blocking Tim’s way again.

“Okay, I’m really tired of you doing that and I’m also really _tired_ , so whatever you and your mystery date are getting up to here I guarantee you I’ll sleep through it. You want me to sleep really well, give me some dinner and hey, if you’ve got any bourbon around here that’ll keep my virgin ears free from corruption by your kinky sex life, promise.” 

“Tim --”

Ignoring him, Tim ducks around him and follows the heat, ending up in a large, spacious living area. There’s a large fireplace with a roaring blaze, an adjacent small kitchen, and comfortable furniture scattered throughout. It’s probably a very nice cabin, but Tim’s not able to focus on much of anything because he’s just noticed the man on the couch, pulling on his shirt and smiling at him.

Behind him, Raylan sighs loudly. Tim just stands there staring, unable to believe what he’s seeing as Boyd Crowder throws his head back and starts to laugh.

“Deputy Gutterson, what an unexpected surprise. Raylan didn’t tell me you were coming.”

Tim ignores Crowder for the moment and turns to Raylan, rapidly processing the facts as they’re presented to him. Raylan is here with Crowder. Tim interrupted something. Something _Raylan_ was doing with _Crowder_. Shirtless things.

Raylan is meeting his gaze, steady and even, his chin tilted slightly in defiance. He’s waiting, Tim can tell, for some kind of conflict. Raylan is vastly underestimating how tired Tim is of being in the SUV.

“I think I’ll take that bourbon now,” Tim says. “And on second thought, make it a double.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of enjoying a nice glass of milk and some cookies while listening to _The Night Before Christmas_ , Tim gets whiskey, Doritos, and the Tale of Raylan and Boyd.

Raylan fixes him a double bourbon, neat, and flips through the forms while Tim drinks it.

“I don’t even know what these _are_ ,” Raylan says, holding one of the papers up and squinting at it. “You know what this is about, Gutterson?”

Tim takes a sip of his bourbon, trying to figure out why he ordered that like he was in some kind of Old West movie. He likes whiskey fine, but he usually drinks Jack and Coke. It was just _I’ll take that bourbon in a glass with some ice and a sweet carbonated beverage_ didn’t adequately convey his feelings on finding Raylan cozied up with _Boyd Crowder_ in a mountain cabin.

Tim has no idea who wrote this song, but it’s not John Denver and if Hank Jr’s politics are anything like his songs, it’s likely not him, either. It’s kind of horrifying, so maybe Nickleback. But _progressive_ and horrifying, so maybe...maybe it’s Radiohead.

“Gutterson?”

Tim blinks. Raylan is staring at him, expectantly, like he’s waiting for an answer. Tim takes a sip of his whiskey. “Raylan.”

“That question I just asked you? About the --” He shakes the papers again. Tim is beginning to wonder if he has a fetish. “And what it’s about...?”

“Oh, that was a serious question?” Tim is suddenly woozy, tired and the whiskey is going to his head. “I just thought since I’d already told you that I didn’t know, we could leave it at that.”

“So you’re telling me you really came this whole way to give me a stack of papers, and you ain’t even sure _why_?” Raylan smacks his hands down on the counter.

Tim knows this routine. He’s watched Raylan do it before, and he is _so_ not in the mood. “Bad cop? You’re doing bad cop, really? It’s like, one in the morning --”

“Tim, it’s seven-thirty.”

“---well it feels like one in the morning, and you would think so too, Raylan, if you drove through a blizzard. Which I did to bring you the papers that you’re waving around like a crazy person. Any other questions?”

“Why?”

“Why, what?” Tim is very aware of Crowder’s presence, even though the other man is being suspiciously quiet. Raylan is probably giving him the third degree to avoid Tim doing it to _him_.

_I used to wait three days to take one shot, Givens, I am going to win this. You can’t even wait for the elevator without pushing the button six times._

“Why did you do that? They gonna take this fine out of your paycheck, personally?”

Tim takes one more sip of the whiskey and then pushes the glass away. He needs to not have any more until he has something to eat. “Because Art’s with his family in North Carolina. Shit, Raylan, you know how he’s been looking forward to that trip, don’t you?” Raylan gives him a look that clearly indicates no, he doesn’t. Tim sighs. “I didn’t have anywhere to be, and he did.”

“So you’re telling me you did this ‘cause you’re sucking up to the boss.”

“Yup, that’s me, Deputy Marshal Suck-Up.” Tim reaches for the glass again. What the hell, this is apparently the only nourishment he’s getting. Raylan takes it away in a gesture that is far too parental for comfort.

“Raylan, what do you think this is, some kind of conspiracy? If it is, it’d be the most boring one ever, geez.”

Raylan crosses his arms over his chest. “Now what, huh? Now that I’ve signed your precious forms --”

“Oh, my god, Raylan. They’re not _mine_.”

“Regardless of who owns them, Tim, what are you going to do now? You can’t drive back.” Raylan finishes the rest of Tim’s drink in one swallow. “Seems weird to me, is all, you drivin’ all the way up here in a blizzard, knowin’ you’d get stuck.”

Tim isn’t sure if it makes him look better or worse to admit he didn’t even think about the _driving back_ part. How the hell did he know how long a blizzard lasted? Tim puts his hands on the counter and pushes off the stool. “You found me out, Raylan. You did. I manufactured this whole entire thing so I could crash your holiday love party with Crowder. Because I’m in love with him, and I won’t let you take him from me.”

Tim hears Crowder laugh behind him. “Now, Gutterson, you promised you wouldn’t tell him.”

“Oh, shut up,” Raylan snaps at Boyd. “The last thing I need in this situation? Is you saying...the things you say.”

Tim turns around and gives Crowder a considering look. “He sounds like kind of a crappy boyfriend.”

Boyd, who has a book open that he’s clearly not reading, snorts. “You have no idea.”

Tim turns a meaningful gaze on Raylan. “Yeah, you know, speaking of --”

Raylan shuffles all the papers back into the folder, loudly. “How about that dinner? You said you were hungry.”

“And now I’m drunk.” Tim waves his hand dismissively. “Meaning I can ask questions I probably wouldn’t, if I was sober. Like how you ended up in a John Denver song with Crowder, here. But I might need more of that bourbon to listen to you actually tell that story.” 

“I would raise my drink to that,” Boyd says. “If I had one.”

“Did Raylan take yours, too?” Tim turns back around. “Raylan you really _are_ a crappy boyfriend.”

“John Denver wrote songs about the Rockies.” Raylan is not as amused as Tim by this, it’s clear. “And stop using that word. And also, shut up, I’m a goddamn prince. Boyd, you want another drink?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“All right.” Raylan takes the bottle of bourbon and splashes some carelessly into Tim’s glass, then grabs another one off the counter and pours some into that, too. “Then tell Tim I’m a prince.”

“He’s a prince, Tim.”

Raylan pauses, and when he looks over at Boyd there’s a warmth in his eyes that wasn’t there before and a half-smile on his face. “That almost sounded like you meant it. Try fluttering your eyelashes this time and say it again.”

“I ain’t doin’ tricks for your amusement, Raylan.”

“What about for my Wild Turkey?” Raylan holds the glass up and shakes it enticingly.

Tim makes his face absolutely serious. “Raylan, could you please wait until I’m at least in the shower, before you have Boyd doing Wild Turkey tricks?”

Raylan scowls at him, but Boyd’s laughing. “Now, Raylan, you didn’t tell me Deputy Marshal Gutterson here was so funny.”

Tim turns and gives a bow from the waist down. He’s drunk, though, so he almost falls off the chair. “Raylan doesn’t talk about a lot of things, apparently.”

“Raylan is going to throw your ass out into the snow if you don’t stop talking about me like I’m not here,” Raylan snaps. “If you manage to get a shower without pissing me off, I’ll make you some dinner. Or Boyd will, because he’s a better cook. Go on.”

Tim stands up and grabs his duffel, heading back towards where he assumes the bedrooms are. “Which one of these should I sleep in?” he calls out, not wanting to go back in the living room. He’s not sure he’s ready to catch them making out or something. That makes him scowl, but at least no one is there to see him blushing hotly.

“The one that ain’t got stuff in it,” comes the helpful reply.

Okay, then.

Tim takes his time showering, both to sober up and give Raylan and Boyd a chance to...get their stories straight. Jesus, that’s probably not his best choice of wording, there. He finishes up and rummages through his bag, pulls on his cotton sleep pants and a t-shirt, then heads back towards the living room.

He stops in the hallway, uncertain if he should clear his throat or something to alert them that he was there. Which, considering how he showed up with no warning in the first place, is either very hypocritical or ridiculous.

Tim decides it’s the latter. He’s faced down the Taliban. He’s faced down the _blizzard_ to end all blizzards. He can handle Raylan and Boyd Crowder making out. Sure. And he doesn’t even know that they’re doing that --

“Just gonna stand here in the hallway all day?”

“Fuck!” Tim swears, whirling around to find Raylan standing behind him and looking entirely too pleased with himself. “You planned that, didn’t you.”

Raylan gives him the worst innocent _what?_ face Tim has ever seen.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on a marshal. Or a sniper.”

“Wouldn’t that actually be a pretty good way to take out a sniper? Show up unexpectedly?” He gives Tim a shove on his shoulder. “Get into the kitchen, let’s get this over with.”

“I’m so honored to spend Christmas Eve with you,” Tim deadpans, and follows him into the living room.

* * *

Boyd makes him a bacon sandwich with a side of Kraft macaroni and cheese. Raylan gives him a glass of milk. Tim feels like he’s ten years old, but he’s starving so he eats it all without a word.

At least the mac-n-cheese weren’t little shapes or letters or something.

Tim gets a beer out of the fridge and drinks it while he does the dishes, a silent disclaimer of his adulthood. He grabs a second one and heads over to the living area when he’s finished, noticing the bourbon bottle has been relocated to the small, low table in front of the couch. 

Raylan is sprawled in a love seat (alone, thank god) like he was poured onto it, as boneless as it’s possible to look while actually still possessing bones. Boyd is on the couch, and there’s room enough but Tim decides to sit on the other love seat. He doesn’t quite sprawl like Raylan.

There’s absolute quiet for about three minutes while the three of them stare at each other. It kind of feels like they’re at a funeral, or a baby shower, or some other horrible and awkward social event. The beer is not getting him drunk like the whiskey. Tim eyes the bottle consideringly.

He hasn’t drank liquor straight out of a bottle since right after bootcamp. And he’s not even sure _Mad Dog_ counts as liquor, or if there’s any other way _to_ drink it. Regardless, he’s very tempted but he doesn’t do it, because maybe he’ll save the hard liquor for after this story. If he ever _hears_ it. Tim clears his throat. Raylan stares at him and takes a drink of his whiskey.

“I don’t like you very much right now,” Tim informs him.

“Last time you’ll ever volunteer to do something nice for the boss, ain’t it, son.” Raylan smirks at him. It looks like he’s sprawling lower. Does he not have a _spine_? This is ridiculous.

“Absolutely.” Tim takes a pull of his beer. “Can we just get this over with?”

“What the hell is there to tell?” Raylan is so irritated that it’s almost comical. He’s always very self-assured, so it’s kind of amusing to see him so thrown off his game.

 _His game_. Drinking milk regresses Tim to a sixteen-year-old boy, apparently.

“I don’t really see how any of this is anything you need to know about,” Raylan snaps, clearly combative and yet still slouching. Tim wonders if that’s something you have to practice. Maybe it’s a tall thing. “And if you’ve got a problem with it, you can get the hell out.”

“I don’t have a problem with you sleeping with guys, if that’s what you’re asking,” Tim says, soothingly, ignoring Raylan’s growling threats. Hey, if Raylan can treat Tim like a kid, Tim can treat him like a dog that looks really scary but really just falls asleep and drools on the couch.

“Oh, really? Because it sure seems like you do.”

Boyd has been quiet this whole time, watching the two of them like a bizarre tennis match. Tim can’t read his expression at all, which makes him a completely different sort of person than Raylan. His body language is also easy, relaxed.

He catches Tim looking at him and winks.

“It’s mostly I have a problem with one particular guy,” Tim says, flatly, holding Boyd’’s stare. “And knock it off, Crowder. I’m a lot harder to charm than you think.”

“I do beg your pardon, Deputy Gutterson, but I don’t think you know me well enough to know _what_ I think,” Boyd says, quiet, his voice like a purr.

Raylan’s a dog, Boyd’s a cat. Great, this is a terrible Disney movie with talking animals. He’s probably something absurd, like a ferret. Tim shakes his head briefly. “Raylan, you can’t expect me not to be a little curious, here.”

“There are videos, Tim, if you really want specifics.” Raylan throws his whiskey back in one drink. “Boyd, tell me you brought more whiskey than this one bottle.”

“Raylan, I brought more whiskey than this one bottle.”

Raylan drums his fingers on the arm of chair. “You mean that, or are you just placating me into a good mood? Because you do that, Boyd, don’t think I ain’t noticed.”

Boyd gives Raylan an easy smile. “Oh, I’m aware of your notice, Raylan. Always.”

“This is what I mean,” Tim interjects, pointing with the top of his beer bottle at the two of them. “I was there when you broke a glass window rolling around on the floor together.” Tim stops, leans his head back against the chair. “I guess maybe this isn’t that surprising.”

“Right, there you go.” Raylan unfolds himself from the chair and reaches for the bottle. He has very long fingers. “Storytime over! Let’s get drunk.”

“Raylan.”

“Yes, Tim?”

“ _Raylan_.”

“How about I tell this particular tale, Raylan?” Boyd interjects smoothly, voice raising and yet somehow it doesn’t sound like he’s yelling, just that he’s talking louder.

Raylan’s glower turns towards Boyd. “Oh, that’s exactly what I want to happen next, Boyd. Why don’t you whittle something while you’re at it, and I’ll play a washboard and it can be a down-home hootenany.” Raylan collapses back into his sprawl with his newly-filled glass in hand.

Boyd apparently doesn’t mind Raylan’s increasingly theatrical displays of tension. “You’ve always said I am very good at figuring out what people want.” Boyd’s eyes flicker over to Tim briefly, which immediately makes Tim’s hackles raise.

Apparently the more Raylan slouches, the straighter Tim sits. How hilarious. “Someone just give me the short, rated _E_ for everyone version.”

“That’s gonna be the shortest story ever told, son,” Raylan drawls, his eyes heated and locked on Boyd’s as they exchange a laugh.

“Bump it up to _T_ , but keep it short.” Tim almost wishes he hadn’t sat right next to the fire, it’s too warm in here. Apparently he will never be comfortable or happy, great.

Boyd takes the bottle and pours himself a good-sized glass of Wild Turkey. “What exactly are you tryin’ to find out, Mr. Gutterson?”

“Please don’t call me that.”

Boyd inclines his head. “All right. Timothy. Surely you will humor me and provide me an answer, before I spill my heart and my secrets out on the floor?” His hands are resting palm-up on his knees, sincerity in his voice, like he really means it. And some part of him does, Tim can tell that. But he’s good at body language, better than most people at reading it, and there’s tension in Boyd’s shoulders, the lines of his body. He’s not lying, but he’s trying to distract, to cajole.

Tim’s eyes narrow, like he’s looking down a scope at a target. His fingers are twitching. “I’ll _provide you an answer_ if you cut the bullshit.”

Raylan’s laugh is sharp and mean. “Yeah, good luck with that.”

Boyd’s looking back at him, and Tim can see the second he drops the act. “Raylan told me you were in the Army. A Ranger.”

“That’s right.” Tim takes a drink of his beer. He doesn’t look nervous at all. The trick is all in the breathing. 

“A sniper.”

“Raylan is batting a thousand on facts about me,” Tim agrees. “See how unfair it is that I can’t get him to share?” 

Boyd’s smile is smaller, but genuine. “Timothy, I have had nineteen years of trying to get Raylan to share and most of the time, I have to resort to the fine substance you see in that bottle, there, or somethin’ else that most assuredly exceeds your acceptable rating for this particular tale.”

Tim leans forward a little, casting Raylan an amused glance. “Does he always talk like this?”

Raylan raises both eyebrows in a _what do you think?_ gesture. “You mean usin’ more words than anyone with any sense needs to answer a question? Yes, always.”

“Okay.” Tim settles back again. “I didn’t grow up with you two. I don’t know anything about you other than --” Tim holds up a hand and starts ticking down with his fingers. “You were a white supremacist, you have a Nazi tattoo, you’ve killed people, you deal drugs, I’m pretty sure you blew up that car and probably other stuff I don’t know about, and Raylan shot you in the chest. Not that that’s really all that significant, considering just how _many_ people Raylan shoots in the chest, but still. All that’s correct, isn’t it?”

Boyd nods. “I’ve blown up other stuff besides a car.”

“Great, thanks. I’ll add that to your file.”

“Oh, it’s already in there,” Raylan interjects.

Tim keeps going. “So you can see, can’t you, that I might be a little concerned to find out a _fellow deputy marshal_ is banging the bad guy on the side?”

“On the side of what?” Boyd glances over at Raylan. “Honey, there something you ain’t tellin’ me?”

Raylan throws the bottle cap at him.

“I’m beginning to see why you shot him,” Tim tells Raylan, who shrugs his shoulders. Tim thinks Raylan might be smiling, or trying not to.

“Yes, Timothy, I can see that you are concerned because of my dastardly reputation, and that maybe your _fellow marshal_ might be swayed by my captivatin’ and illegal activities into talking a walk on the greyer side of the law. That sound about right?” 

“It’s like you’re doing it on purpose. Who says _dastardly_ anymore, anyway?” Tim is honestly not sure he’s spent this long around Crowder, ever, and he really can’t believe the man talks like this all the time. His body language cues are a lot more genuine, the tension from earlier funneled back into that natural, buzzing energy Tim’s always associated with the man. 

“Well, all I am saying, Deputy Gutterson, is that don’t really show a lot of faith in Raylan, does it? If you think he’d be that easy to corrupt?”

“Are you crazy? I don’t think he’d do it _willingly_. It’s just, well, hell, Crowder. You know how Raylan rushes in and does shit while barely thinking it through. No telling what he might get himself mixed up in, thinking he’s _helping_.” Tim makes air quotes around the last word.

There’s a glimmer of amusement in Boyd’s eyes. “As it happens, I know a bit about that, yes.”

“All right, then. That’s why I’m concerned. Also it’s going to make work parties really awkward.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I’m about done with this shit.” Raylan stands up in one motion, more graceful than he has any right to be.

“Think of the parties, Raylan.” Tim watches him walk around to the kitchen and start banging the cupboard doors, likely in search of something that doesn’t exist.

“Shut up, Tim.”

“No, I mean it, come on. Picture, like, Crowder and Art standing around chatting with little plates of food. That doesn’t seem awkward to you? Because it does to me.”

“Gutterson, when was the last time you saw me at a work party?”

“You skipped the holiday party, and I guess I see why. Could you get me a beer?”

Raylan walks back with two and hands one to Tim. He’s holding a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos in his other hand, which he throws on the table next to the rapidly depleting bottle of Wild Turkey. Tim cannot imagine the two of them shopping together for groceries.

All of a sudden, Raylan laughs -- a short sound, under his breath, but still a laugh. He glances down at Tim and his laugh turns into a grin. “Could bring him to the summer picnic, though,” he says. He makes finger guns with both hands, even the one holding a beer, and points them at the floor. “I’ll pretend to shoot him and he can clog. It’ll be great. Fun for the whole family.”

Tim laughs, and it’s a nice break in the tension. “Clogging. Funny. I bet that’s like the two-step in Texas, everyone thinks you know how to do it.”

“I reckon they might, but I ain’t jokin’. He can clog.” Raylan’s grin has moved from _amused_ to _unholy_. “He’s not too bad at it.”

“Unlike Raylan, who trips over his own feet sometimes when he’s walkin’. Now stop mocking my ability to move my feet to a rhythm in a joyful fashion, Raylan, just because you can’t hear a beat to save your life.”

“I will give you one of these delicious domestic beers if you show me,” Tim says to Boyd.

“No you won’t,” Raylan informs him. “They’re gone.”

Tim can’t really process that at the moment, because Boyd’s staring hard at him, eyes glittering strangely. He doesn’t look threatening or unfriendly, just...intense. “Boy, if you want me to see me dance, you’re either gonna have to shoot me proper or ask me real, real nice.”

Quick as anything, he reaches out and nimbly snatches the beer out of Tim’s hands, then takes a nice long drink. He gives it back to Tim, who takes it because he can’t think of anything else to do.

For some reason, Boyd’s words make him think about last night in the hotel room, his fantasy and how quickly it turned to something else. Boyd’s smiling at him like he knows what Tim is thinking. Tim gives him his best _oh I really doubt it_ stare in return.

There’s tension of a different kind humming through him, and it’s entirely unwelcome. Great, he’s getting his signals all mixed up now. He’ll go to shoot someone and get off instead, how awesome. Or ask his target out on a date. “Those good enough reasons to get you to spill your heart out or whatever?”

“Indeed they are, son.”

“Don’t call me that,” Tim snaps, for the first time showing emotion. He grits out a, “Please,” between his teeth, but barely. “Just...tell me what’s going on.”

Boyd just shrugs, but Tim knows what he’s dealing with now, and no way did Boyd miss that. Fuck, the last thing he needs to do is hand over some nice, personal ammunition to Boyd Crowder and ask him if he’d like to load the gun.

Or...however that metaphor would work. Shot with his own gun? Something like that, anyway. Jesus, he needs to stop thinking about guns.

“Actually, I changed my mind. You want to know, Tim? I’ll tell you. Boyd’s version will just piss me off.” Raylan is still standing, looming, which is some kind of innate talent of his. “Me and Boyd were friends when we were nineteen. We got drunk on cheap whiskey and moonshine that tasted like gasoline, and we hooked up in the back of my old truck.”

Boyd puts his hand on his heart. “I fell for his romantic turn of phrase, obviously.”

“Shut up, Boyd. Anyway, there was a cave-in and Romeo here saved my life. You may have noticed, he’s good at weaseling his way out of tight situations.”

“You’re welcome,” Boyd intones, sipping his whiskey. The more irritated Raylan becomes, the more amused he looks.

Wow, it’s disconcerting as hell to find he has something in common with Boyd Crowder. Mutual amusement in Raylan’s melodramatic tendencies is probably better than some other things, though.

“Then I left Harlan with the money my aunt gave me. And I came back, and no matter how hard I tried to get _rid_ of him, including shooting him in the heart --”

“Now, technically, Raylan --”

Raylan is pacing again, gesturing with his beer bottle. If he spills any, Tim is going to punch him in the jaw. “Don’t say it. Anyway, I tried to disentangle myself, but Crowder here is kind of like Kudzu. That weed you can’t kill or get rid of, if you’re dumb enough to plant it in the first place? Yeah. Just like that.”

Boyd starts laughing and falls back on the couch. “This is the best story I think you’ve ever told. Kudzu? _Kudzu_.”

Raylan points at him. “You’re just mad you didn’t think that up first.”

“Devastated.”

“Anyway, I can’t get rid of him and for some reason, you can come up with your own theories and maybe share them because I certainly have no fucking idea why, I’m --” Raylan stops. “Goddamn it, I hate talking about this shit.”

“Wow. I hadn’t noticed.” Tim eyes the whiskey again. If Raylan’s already pissed off, maybe he’ll just go ahead and ask if there’s Coke to put it in.

“I just have...there’s...a thing. With me and Crowder.” Raylan tugs on his hair. “It’s always been there. I moved away and nearly killed him and I’ve had him arrested but it hasn’t really...changed, so probably it ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

“You’re a lucky man, Crowder,” Tim drawls.

“Don’t I know it.” Boyd eyes are half-closed, his boots on the table. He looks relaxed. “ _I couldn’t kill him, so I kept him._ Like I’m an alley cat you couldn’t get rid of so you just brought me inside.”

“Sure, that sounds as good as anything else.” Raylan pauses. “Not as good as Kudzu, but it’ll do.”

“My choices are between a feral cat and a plant?”

“No, now, Boyd -- I never said the cat was feral. I just said it lived in the alley.”

“I am sure you implied, Raylan.”

“Maybe it was missing a leg,” Raylan challenges, sounding a shade beneath petulant.

“If we’re done here,” Tim says pointedly, interrupting them. “It seems like the two of you don’t have a clue what you’re doing, and never really have. That sound about right?”

Raylan smiles tightly at him. “Sure, sounds great.”

Tim looks at Boyd, who just gives a shrug and sips his whiskey. 

“Great.” Tim stands up, finishes his beer, and goes to throw it away in the kitchen. “I’m going to catch a few hours sleep, and then I’ll be on my way.” The thought of driving in the terrible weather is a only slightly more awful than listening to Raylan and Crowder bitch at each other like an old, married couple.

Tim pauses on his way back to the guest room and looks back at the two of them. Raylan is staring at Boyd like he’s going to try and tear him apart, but not out of anger. It makes Tim look away in haste, flushed with something that feels like embarrassment but isn’t, quite.

When he crawls into bed, the sheets are cold. This is the strangest Christmas he can ever remember, and considering he spent one in Afghanistan watching from across the street while a man tortured three other men, that’s saying something. It’s kind of a toss-up between which made him more uncomfortable -- that, or spending an evening listening to Raylan and ...whatever Crowder was...playing a game of verbal ping-pong.

At least in Afghanistan, he couldn’t _hear_ the men being tortured. No such luck, here.

That reminds him of what else he could be hearing and he groans, grabbing the pillow and pulling it over his head just in case. Maybe spending Christmas with his Shiner Bock and the Navy SEALs movie wouldn’t have been so bad, after all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tim spends Christmas playing cards, drinking bourbon, and getting an unexpected gift thanks to a well-placed mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have to handwave some mirror physics. shhh >>

Tim doesn’t wake up until nearly eight the next morning, which is disorienting because he never sleeps that late. The window in the bedroom he’s sleeping in is set high up on the wall, covered with a ridiculous -- but apparently effective -- frilly curtain, so the light doesn’t wake him up like he’s used to.

The desire for coffee gets him out of bed, and on his way to the kitchen he notices the other bedroom door is closed. It’s still weirding him out to think about Raylan sharing a bed with Crowder, and maybe part of it _is_ because Crowder’s a guy. Raylan’s always attracted women fairly easily, and for some reason Tim never considered that he might like men, too.

Somehow that seems like cheating. 

Tim finds the coffee maker and the essential supplies, relieved the coffee appears to be completely normal and not flavored with vanilla or Swiss chocolate or some other aberration. After the Doritos and the macaroni and cheese -- and _Boyd Crowder_ \-- he no longer trusts Raylan’s tastes.

There’s a small container of Peppermint creamer in the fridge. This brings Tim a fair amount of evil glee, and he doesn’t care to whom it belongs, it’s still hilarious it’s there. His money’s on Raylan, though. Crowder probably flavors his with Oxy or meth or something, ha.

While he waits for the coffee to brew, he checks out the cabin in more detail. There’s a set of doors to what is probably a deck, and a staircase going downstairs that he definitely hadn’t noticed last night.

The bag of Doritos is still on the coffee table. Of course it is. The Wild Turkey bottle is nowhere to be found. Of course it isn’t.

Tim fixes his coffee and walks down the stairs, wondering what he’s going to find. Part of him is wondering if he’ll find Rachel down there with, say, Ava Crowder -- which would have the benefit of at least being really _hot_ , along with surprising -- but all he finds is a rec room, decked out with a sectional sofa, a large-screen television, and a pool table.

Tim hears footsteps upstairs, and so he heads back up to the living room. Raylan is standing there, staring at the coffee pot as if it’s a foreign, strange thing he’s never seen before. Tim watches him honest-to-god _poke_ at the carafe, scowling. 

“Raylan, tell me the peppermint creamer’s for you. Please, continue ruining your badass reputation some more, it’s cracking me up.”

“I thought you were leaving,” Raylan says, by way of an answer. His hair is messy, and he’s wearing one of those white tank top things that men like Raylan seem to wear as if it’s some kind of rule, and a pair of UK sweatpants.

Tim ignores the brief, momentary twinge he feels when Raylan says that to him. “Well, I thought I’d have some coffee first, if you didn’t mind.”

Raylan squints at him and then yawns. “Yeah, whatever, I just wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

Tim sits on the barstool at the breakfast counter, or whatever it’s called, that divides the kitchen from the living room. He just shrugs, watching as Raylan opens the fridge and takes out the peppermint creamer. He pours some in his coffee with a _fuck you_ stare at Tim. “It’s good, whatever.”

“Sure, I bet it is. You gonna top it with whipped cream and a caramel drizzle?”

“Used up all the whipped cream.” Raylan sips his coffee. “On the pie, for dinner.”

“Really? What kind?” Tim looks at him suspiciously. “Is it like, orange jello in crescent roll dough, with Ready-Whip?”

“That’s disgusting, Gutterson.”

“Says the man drinking peppermint flavored half-n-half.”

Raylan picks up the small container and reads the back. “It’s not half-n-half. Is it? It’s creamer.”

“That’s what creamer _is_.”

“That’s what your face is,” Raylan says, but he smiles at him. He seems less tense than the night before, now that he’s waking up a bit. Tim absolutely does not want to know why that is. “I didn’t mean that you had to leave, you know. You’re the one who was all _let me just catch a few hours sleep_ about it. I ain’t an idiot, I know the roads are terrible. Besides.” Raylan’s voice gets all rough, and he stares down into his coffee. “It’s Christmas, and shit.”

Somehow, Tim had completely forgotten about that.

“Right,” he says, trying not to look like he had. “That’s why I thought maybe I should, you know. Leave. Besides. I didn’t get you anything. That’ll be kind of awkward opening presents, don’t you think.”

“You brought that beer,” Raylan points out.

“True. I have some cigarettes in the car. We can eat Doritos and smoke, it’ll be great. Like we live in a frat house.” Tim snorts a laugh. “Or like I’m back in the Army.”

“Boyd was in the Army,” Raylan tells him, sounding the slightest bit hesitant, as if maybe Tim forgot about Boyd just like he did Christmas, and Raylan doesn’t want to be the one to remind him.

“Yeah?” Tim didn’t know that, though it’s probably in Crowder’s file. He wonders if he’ll have to put this entire visit in there, and tries not to think about the paperwork nightmare this whole situation might cause. “What’d he do?”

“Boyd, what’d you do in the Army?” Raylan’s voice is unexpectedly loud as he calls that out, making Tim startle. Maybe Raylan isn’t the only one losing his reputation, here. 

“Blew shit up and got in trouble, mostly,” Boyd calls back, from somewhere in the back of the house by the bedrooms.

“You got in trouble for blowing things up? Why, was it stuff you weren’t supposed to, or were you not supposed to be blowing anything up in the first place?” Tim calls over his shoulder, at a slightly lower decibel. The cabin isn’t _that_ big, Raylan, geez.

“No, I got in trouble for runnin’ my mouth off.”

“Shocking,” Raylan says, but he’s smiling slightly as he sips his coffee, and then he laughs -- not tense or angry, just a laugh. “I’m tryin’ to imagine the two of you in the Army together, and how long it would take before you snapped and hit him with your rifle, Tim.”

“He wouldn’t have been a sniper, probably. Theatrical people usually ended up as drill sergeants.”

“You hear that, Boyd?” Raylan calls, still smiling. “Tim here thinks you’re _theatrical_.”

“Well, now, isn’t that nice of him to say. And here I thought Mr. Gutterson did not much approve of anything I may happen to be.”

“If you tell me that you don’t drink the peppermint creamer like Raylan, I’ll approve of your taste  
in coffee.” Tim looks down at his, thinking about Raylan’s offer. He doesn’t relish the thought of driving home in the weather, even if the roads are clear. And if they aren’t, he’ll just spend the day in the car and being irritated and cold. “You sure you don’t mind if I stay here for the day?”

“Nah. I was just giving you shit yesterday because you surprised me. I hate surprises and also I hate you getting one over on me.” Raylan takes the coffee pot and refills Tim’s mug. His smile is drifting from genuine to too-charming. “You should try the creamer. It’s Christmas. Live a little, Tim.”

“No.” Tim eyes him suspiciously. “Raylan. You’re being too nice, what is it? Are you trying to bribe me so I don’t put this in Crowder’s file, or tell anyone? Believe me, I don’t want to have to explain this to anyone else -- I’ll get all the metaphors wrong. Alley cats, Cujo, it’ll be a nightmare.”

“Kudzu. Cujo was the dog. The one with rabies. You want breakfast or something?”

“Can you make me, like, an omelet out of Doritos?”

Raylan is giving him a strange look. “You think weird things are funny.”

“Do you really want to go there?” Tim rolls his eyes, but he feels a lot better suddenly -- maybe the thought of being by himself on the holiday bothered him more than he wanted to admit. “But thanks. I still don’t have a present for you, though.”

Raylan leans back against the counter. “S’alright,” he drawls, yawning. Tim can’t remember seeing him this relaxed, though it’s not like he’s spent a lot of time with Raylan in situations that are particularly oriented towards relaxing. Most of the time if he looks bored or relaxed, Tim figures he’s faking it for someone else’s benefit. “I don’t have a present for you, either.”

“If you got Crowder something embarrassing, let me know so I can not watch him open it.” Tim suddenly chokes on his coffee, his eyes widening. “Raylan. _Raylan_.”

“What?” Raylan mutters, looking at the floor.

“You’re -- oh my god, you’re _blushing_.”

“No, I ain’t, this coffee is just real warm,” Raylan snaps, pushing out of his lean. “That’s probably your fault.”

Tim just keeps laughing, he can’t help himself. “This is better than the peppermint creamer. Wait until Rachel finds out.”

“Shut up.”

“Crowder makes you _blush_.”

“Shhh,” Raylan hisses at him. “I thought you were a good guy, like me? Remember, all that _Raylan, he’s a criminal_ shit? What the hell is your problem?”

“No, hey, this isn’t about good guys and bad guys. It’s Christmas, right? It’s about...forgiveness and peace and joy.” Tim grins at Raylan with unholy amusement. “And you, blushing like you’re fifteen and Crowder asked you to a school dance.”

Raylan sets his mug on the counter and leans forward, towards Tim. “You want me to tell you, in detail, what he gave for Christmas that is makin’ me blush, Gutterson?” Raylan holds a finger up. “ _Allegedly_ blush, I mean. I could tell you. You were probably awake, how’s that?”

“Lame.” Tim slides off the barstool. “Can I have some breakfast? You got some Pop-Tarts in there? Cap’n Crunch cereal?”

“I’m going to hit you with a goddamn frying pan. That’s your present.” 

“Assault?”

“No, me warning you about it, first.” Raylan moves out of his way, still glaring. “Fix your own breakfast.”

“I will, if you have anything with nutritional value in here. How do you eat all this shit, Raylan? You don’t eat like this at home, right? Tell me it’s your Christmas indulgence and you don’t really have this shit in your pantry.”

“I live over a bar, Tim, I don’t even _have_ a pantry. I have a mini-fridge and that’s about it.”

“You got that closet by your bathroom,” Crowder points out, joining them in the kitchen. If Raylan lounges and sprawls, Crowder is all wire and angles. Even his hair is sticking straight up, and he’s freshly showered and dressed so it’s not from sleep. “And yes, he does. One time all he had in his apartment was a box of ramen noodles. He ain’t got a stove, so he just turned on the water in the bathroom until it got real hot.”

Tim manages to find some bread -- wheat bread, even -- and some peanut butter. His beverage choices appear to be coffee, water, whiskey, and something clear in a jar. “You guys suck at vacation shopping.”

“Hey, Boyd, lucky for us, Tim’s gonna be joining us for Christmas because I’m a nice guy and I offered, even if he showed up uninvited and he don’t even have any presents.”

“Well that’s mighty nice of you, Raylan, but I’m not sure there’s much else he could do given the situation.” Boyd sighs when both Tim and Raylan blink owlishly at him. “Here, I will let nature tell you in a more dramatic way than I could ever hope to manage.”

“I doubt that,” Raylan says under his breath to Tim, as Boyd goes over to the set of curtains across the room. “Watch, this will be plenty dramatic.”

“He’s just opening the curtains, Raylan.”

“ _Dramatically_.”

“I’m starting to think he’s not necessarily the dramatic one.” Tim ignores Raylan side-eying him and watches Boyd pull the curtains back. For a second he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing, or why someone would put a set of double doors up against a wall of _oh my god, that’s not a wall._

“No.” Tim blinks, unsure he’s really seeing what all signs indicate he’s seeing. Which is more snow than should ever be in one place that isn’t Antarctica. “That’s not -- that’s a snow drift or something, right?”

Raylan pushes past him, but he doesn’t go to the living room, he heads down the stairs to the rec room. Tim grabs his mug of coffee and follows him, and he can Crowder’s footsteps behind him.

Raylan turns on the television, which is apparently powered by a satellite and has no signal. Then he presses every button on three consecutive remotes until the stereo beneath the television switches on, to an FM station that is nothing but static and so loud that Tim nearly spills coffee on himself.

He and Crowder exchange a look that can only be called _sympathetic_ as Raylan growls at the remote, throws it on the floor, and then hunkers down in front of the stereo system and starts turning all the dials. Tim’s starting to think maybe he should put a stop to this aural torture when Raylan finally finds a station that isn’t playing Christmas music, that _Call Me Maybe_ song, or a preacher yelling about something sinful.

By the time they finish listening to the weather bulletins, Tim wishes they’d left it on _Call Me Maybe_. There’s no way he’s getting out of here, not today, not tomorrow, and not the day after that. The blizzard is unprecedented, and Tim is snowed in a cabin for the foreseeable future with Raylan Givens, Boyd Crowder, and nothing to eat but junk food and Wild Turkey.

This isn’t even a Nickleback song at this point. It’s more like an entire Kid Rock _album_.

Tim turns away silently and heads upstairs, back to the kitchen. Time to put some bourbon in his coffee. There’s really nothing to do about this but get drunk.

* * * 

Christmas is spent in his pajamas, getting steadily drunker and winning money off of Raylan at poker. He and Crowder split a few games fairly evenly, meaning Tim ends the game with the same amount of money he started with. That seems fairly pointless, but it was fun to beat Raylan, so. There’s that. 

Raylan tries to do a card magic trick that doesn’t work, Crowder reads a book and Tim takes a nap even though he hasn’t done that since grade school. It’s probably all the bourbon-laced coffee, Tim tells himself, of which he’s had about sixteen mugs full.

At some point he tries the peppermint creamer. It’s terrible, but maybe it just doesn’t go very well with bourbon.

They have peanut butter sandwiches and Doritos for lunch. Because it’s afternoon, Raylan puts ice in their bourbon. Despite Raylan and Crowder’s continual back-and-forth snarking, and the fact they have bacon sandwiches and Kraft mac-n-cheese for dinner _again_ , it’s not the worst Christmas he can remember.

Just the most bizarre.

They watch _Die Hard_ , which they find in the cabinet of DVD movies next to the television, justifying it as a Christmas movie. At some point, Tim notices Hans Gruber’s smooth, intelligent criminal mastermind and John McClain’s macho-driven heroics, and points out the similarities to the two men he’s spending Christmas with. “Maybe they’re sleeping together,” he says, and Boyd grins at him, toothy and wide. 

“I bet you could find a story on the Internet,” Raylan pipes up, but then refuses to say anything else about how he might know that, and then throws something at Boyd for telling Tim that Raylan thinks Hans Gruber is hot.

Tim’s very drunk by the time the movie’s over, in a way he usually isn’t but is unavoidable after a day spent adding bourbon to every consumable liquid. 

They play a game of pool, which takes forever because Raylan isn’t any good and Tim takes too long to line up his shots and then forgets geometry. His last shot missed entirely, nearly knocking the ball onto the floor. Oops.

Boyd asks him if he’s sure any of those shots he took in the Army actually hit anyone, and Tim nods and says over a hundred of them did.

“You kept track? Knew some Rangers who did that.” Boyd’s expression is colder than Tim’s seen it, and he seems foreign, remote. “A competition. That the sort of thing you did fightin’ on the side of the brave and the free, Timothy?”

Tim scowls, not even noticing Boyd called him by his full first name, which no one ever does. “The Army kept track, not me,” he corrects, leaning back against the pool table. “That wasn’t really my idea of a fun competition. I know they’re people, Crowder. Were people,” he corrects himself, leaning against the pool cue. Bad idea. 

Boyd nods, and his eyes warm a fraction. “That’s good.” He hasn’t seemed all that drunk, except for the part where he gave a loud, obnoxious rebel yell earlier when he beat Raylan at some bizarre card game Tim couldn’t figure out. His eyes are on Raylan again, like they are most of the time.

“I think you’re lyin’,” Tim says, out the blue, a few minutes later. “And you’re prolly laughing at me.” He points threateningly with the pool cue and almost knocks a picture of a deer off the wall.

“If we’re laughin’, it ain’t ‘cause we’re lyin’. It’s ‘cause you’re drunk,” Raylan informs him. “Also it’s your turn. And lyin’ about what?”

Tim lines up his shot, dizzy and it’s very warm in here, he almost wants to take his shirt off. “About you two.”

Boyd and Raylan exchange a look. “About us, what?” Raylan asks again, warily.

Tim makes a vague motion with his hand. “This. You didn’t even get him a present, Raylan. And you -- you can’t like guys, you sleep with too many women. That’s not fair, you don’t get both. Pick one, man. It’s like cheating.”

Boyd laughs, very softly. “Yeah, Raylan. It’s like cheating.”

“Hey!” Raylan proclaims, long arms lifted in a vague gesture of supplication. “I do not sleep with that many women. Not at once! Except that whole thing with Lindsay and her friend but it was her friend’s birthday. Look, shut up, I can’t help it that I’m some kind of irresistible sex god.”

That’s completely unfair, because Tim can’t even get _off_ thinking about threesomes and Raylan gets to have them....!

Crowder is laughing. “Irresistible sex god?”

“You ain’t complain’, unless that’s what all those noises were supposed to be this morning,” Raylan snaps, and Tim’s just drunk enough that instead of being bothered, he’s amused.

“Wow, you said that and didn’t even blush. This morning he blushed,” Tim tells Crowder, leaning over like he’s whispering. “He made, like, a double-whatever-you-call-it.” 

“Entendre,” Boyd supplies helpfully. “And there is a difference, Raylan, between _moanin’_ and revering you as some kind of sexual deity. I’ll try to be more clear in the future.”

“See that you do. And you, of all people, should not lecture me about havin’ a god complex.” Raylan turns to Tim again. “What the hell are you talking about, anyway?”

“I believe, if you’ll permit me to translate to our inebriated friend here, that Mr. Gutterson is implying he thinks you and I are having some fun at his expense about the nature of our...relationship.”

Raylan looks momentarily panicked. “But we don’t know what that _is_ , Boyd.”

Boyd stares up at the ceiling for a moment, like he’s counting. Tim nods in sympathy. He’s done that with Raylan before, too. “He doesn’t believe you and me go to bed together.”

“But he saw you come out of the bedroom.” Raylan blinks at him. “Wait, what do you mean?”

“He doesn’t believe that we’re fucking,” Boyd says finally, punching Raylan in the shoulder. 

“Ow.” Raylan turns to Tim again. “Want to watch?”

“Wow, that’s...why would you...why do you say these things, Raylan?” Tim stammers, and he can feel Boyd’s eyes on him and suddenly he has to wonder if Crowder is even tipsy at all. 

“Well you said you don’t believe me.” Raylan crosses his arms, and his pool cue falls down on the floor. “Was just gonna give you proof.”

“And you go straight to sex shows?”

“Just tryin’ to clear it up for you,” Raylan says defensively. “Is it just us fucking you don’t believe, or...other stuff, too? Like sucking cock, or whatever?”

Tim looks at Boyd, like he can maybe translate into Raylan-speak what Tim’s trying to say since he can’t wrap his brain around it. Jesus, why did he drink so much? He never does this. Spending Christmas drunk was more his father’s idea of celebrating than Tim’s.

Boyd grabs Raylan by his shirt and pulls him in, kissing him in a way that effectively erases any doubt in Tim’s head that they’re telling the truth. Raylan kisses him back, enthusiastically if the way he’s grabbing at Boyd is any indication. 

Tim blames the liquor for how long he watches them, before awkwardly clearing his throat and muttering, “Okay, well, I guess I believe you.”

It takes them a few seconds to stop, and the way they’re staring at each other suggests they’d really rather not have to. Well, hey. It’s Christmas, isn’t it? And if there’s one day of the year where he can magnanimously allow his friend and fellow lawman to make out with his criminally-inclined boyfriend, this would be the day.

It probably helps that he’s drunk.

“Gonna go upstairs and have a nap,” Tim says, resting his pool cue against the wall. “Have a....” He just can’t seem to say _good time_ so he says, “Merry Christmas,” instead. It sounds dumb even to him, but he doesn’t think they’re paying attention to anything other than each other.

Tim gets upstairs and is suddenly cold, despite being way too warm a minute ago in the basement. There’s still a fire going in the upstairs fireplace, so he falls down on the couch and closes his eyes, intending to just sleep for a hour or so, or at least until the room stops spinning. 

* * *  
He’s not sure what wakes him up.

His mouth tastes like cotton soaked in sorrow and children’s tears, because bourbon and Doritos should never be consumed at the same time, ever. He’s also under a blanket, which he doesn’t remember as being anywhere near him, and there’s a glass of water on the low table next to the couch.

Tim grabs the cup, thirstily gulping down the water. He stretches and he’s pleasantly warm, the couch is comfortable and he knows he should get up and go to bed but the fire’s almost dead and that means it will be cold. He has no idea what time it is, but he has no idea what time he came upstairs, either. There’s not a proliferation of clocks in the mountain cabin of doom, that’s for sure.

He’s just about to brave the chill and head to his room when he happens to glance over at the mirror. And what he sees makes him flush hot, like the fire dying in the hearth flared back up to life inside him.

The mirror was in a strange place, hanging on the wall above the small landing where the stairway split to go downstairs. It was very awkward if, say, you were drunk and going too fast down the first part of stairs, because the sudden abrupt stop made it look like you were running into yourself. It was an awkward angle, likely due to some necessity of construction, which made sense as the downstairs den was obviously a recent addition.

“Parents probably put this here so they can see if their kids are watchin’ dirty movies,” Raylan had said, laughing. “You can sit on the couch and the mirror shows you whatever’s goin’ on down there.”

Well, Raylan was right about that. But it wasn’t a dirty _movie_ he was seeing -- no, it was the real-life kind of dirty. Starring Raylan and Crowder. And either they’d waited until they thought he was asleep or they were going for round two, because hadn’t he left them so they could do this, however long ago that was?

He should really, really stop watching and get up and go to his room. Or make a lot of noise, so they’d at least know he was awake. But he’s not entirely sure that would get them to stop -- and to be honest, Tim’s not sure he wants them to stop.

Hey, it’s not everyday you see Raylan Givens on his knees.

Maybe it should make it less interesting to watch considering he’s on his knees sucking cock, but it doesn’t. It should also probably matter that Raylan’s sucking _Boyd Crowder_ ’s cock, but apparently it doesn’t because Tim’s still not looking away. Crowder is shirtless but he’s still in his jeans, leaning back against the pool table. He has one hand flat on the top keeping him steady and the other -- oh. The other is fisted tight in Raylan’s hair. Boyd’s grinning down at him, though occasionally he pulls Raylan’s head closer with his grip in Raylan’s hair, and then his head goes back and Tim catches the faintest hint of a moan. 

Raylan’s hands are on either side of Boyd’s narrow hips, braced against the side of the table. He’s not trying to fight or push him away, and Tim can’t see Raylan’s face but he can tell Raylan is looking up at Boyd from the way his head’s tilted. Tim’s good at observing details like this, he’s spent a lot of time watching other people through glass. 

It usually wasn’t this interesting. 

He can imagine how Raylan looks, too -- all hot challenge in his eyes, probably smirking, and there’s sounds like he’s maybe choking. Tim can imagine that, too, like maybe Boyd’s trying to get him to stop smirking or to back off, and Raylan’s fighting it and doesn’t care and _what in the hell is he doing?_

Why is he thinking about how Raylan Givens looks while sucking cock? Why is he _watching_ Raylan Givens suck cock in the first place, and why is he hard and rubbing himself through his jeans while he’s doing it?

He’ll blame it on the booze, or the fact he’s half-asleep -- but he’s obviously not going to stop watching, so he’ll worry about it later. Tim unbuttons the top of his jeans and eases down the zipper, working his hand inside. He has to bite back a moan, hissing through his teeth instead at how unexpectedly good it feels. He can’t remember the last time touching himself felt like this.

He can hear the low, rough murmur of Boyd’s voice but not what he’s saying -- it’s probably infuriating, that seems to be his forte. Especially with Raylan. He’s probably telling Raylan he looks good down there, that he’s got a good mouth for sucking him off. Tim knows exactly where this sudden vocal track for gay porn came from, because he’d watched Raylan and Boyd all day going at it --verbally, that is.

At least it makes more sense, now. All that bickering? It’s foreplay. 

Boyd pulls Raylan’s head back by his hair, and then smacks him across the face.

….and so is that.

Tim has never smacked anyone during sex, and the only time a girl’s smacked him they _definitely_ were not doing anything hot at the time. Unless you count “having an argument about your emotional unavailability and tendency to check out in bed” as hot, which Tim definitely does not. Boyd smacking Raylan is apparently an entirely different thing, because it gets Tim’s hand moving faster and he kicks off the blankets, forcing his breathing to stay as quiet as possible. Not that he thinks they’ll notice him, but it’s just habit by now to watch without being seen.

He wonders if Raylan likes that, being smacked. Tim wonders if he’d like being slapped. Maybe by Raylan. Before he can think about it, he lightly smacks the side of his _own_ face just to see. And he nearly comes right then, so. All right. Good to know.

He wants to do it again, harder, but it’s awkward and it might be too loud. But he’s been smacked enough times to know what it feels like, and he wonders if Raylan likes the way it makes his skin sting, or the dull echo that rings through his head from the impact. It’s just not something Tim imagines Raylan taking from anyone -- maybe that’s why it’s so hot.

Because it is hot, there’s no way Tim could pretend otherwise, not with the way he’s getting off watching. He’s flushed and his breathing is rapidly becoming less and less contained. Boyd smacks Raylan again and then he laughs, hand resting briefly against Raylan’s face. Like maybe he’s stroking his fingers over reddened, sensitive skin.

Boyd grabs Raylan’s hair with both hands and pulls him forward, hard. He holds him there and Tim watches the way he shudders with it, head back, eyes closed. He leans back against the table again when he’s finished, and Raylan pulls back and looks up at him. Tim can’t make out the expression on his face, but Boyd grins and pats him on the head, and Raylan smacks him on the thigh -- loudly, making Boyd say, “Shhh,” with a finger to his lips and point upstairs.

Tim’s hand stills on his cock, heart racing, and he’s close and it’s going to be very hard to explain this if they come upstairs because either he pretends he just gets off on other people’s vacation couches, or by watching them have sex. Tim’s not sure which he wants to admit to, but they don’t come upstairs so he doesn’t stop. 

Instead, Raylan gets up and shoves Boyd back against the table, leaning in to kiss him.

Tim can’t even lie to himself that he hopes they keep going, because the thought of what Raylan might look like all sprawled back with someone on their knees in front of him is getting his hand moving faster again, making him bite his lip to keep from _telling_ Boyd to suck him off already. Crowder doesn’t look like he’d mind showing off, but Tim isn’t sure he could deal with the aftermath of asking for him to. 

Raylan finally grabs Boyd’s shoulders and turns him around, which is confusing until he pushes him face-first towards the pool table. Tim’s still a bit fuzzy on what’s going on here, and he really wants to get off before the thing where he stops thinking about sex and starts thinking about guns and shooting people happens again and shit, now he’s thought about it so all of this is going to be for nothing. He’s frustrated, angry as he feels himself getting distracted and _damn it_ , no.

Any minute now, there will be blood and death instead of heat and want, there will be begging and pleading instead of moans. And then it will be people he knows instead of strangers his government tells him are the enemies. He tries to remember Boyd smacking Raylan, the way he’d grabbed Raylan’s hair and it’s not working, now he’s too wound up and he’s going to have to come thinking about being a goddamn killer because he can’t stop it, he’s too close. 

Tim turns his face to the side, trying to mentally check out of what’s happening to his body. It still feels good but the numbness is creeping in, changing it to something perfunctory. A physical necessity. 

He’s afraid to look and see what they’re doing now. Afraid to drag them, albeit unknowingly, into the dark places he goes when this happens. And there’s a tantalizing voice telling him it’d be okay if it was Boyd he was thinking about killing, because he’s a criminal and he’s killed people before, Tim’s sure of it even if they’ve never conclusively proven it. Hell, _Raylan_ shot him, didn’t he?

But then he remembers the way Raylan looked at Boyd, and the sick feeling comes back, because what kind of man is he and hasn’t he learned by now to _not let this happen_? It’’s so much worse when he wants it this badly, all that frustration and desperation mixed with a heavy dose of shame. 

Tim opens his eyes to see Raylan fucking Crowder over the side of the pool table. 

Everything else burns out of Tim’s mind -- the people he’s killed, the ones he’s afraid of killing, those he might secretly want to. All he can see is Raylan, his hand on the back of Crowder’s neck and way he’s fucking him, violent and rough, like it’s force except Tim knows for damn sure that it isn’t.

At one point Crowder tries lifting his head up, and he’s grinning like a madman. Raylan shoves his head back down on the table and doesn’t stop. The angle doesn’t really show him anything of the _mechanics_ of what’s going on, so it’s oddly like the soft-core porn he’d watched the last time he’d gotten off -- except this isn’t acting, all these noises are real and Raylan’s eyes are anything but empty.

He’s pretty sure that Crowder is saying something, probably taunting Raylan and wow, does that guy _ever_ shut up? But Raylan’s starting to get a little loud, and he shifts hands on Boyd’s neck and Tim doesn’t know why but he doesn’t care, he’s so close and it’s so hot he can’t even stop and wonder if _he’s_ making too much noise.

Raylan’s movements are getting more erratic and a pool ball slides off the table and onto the floor -- which is carpeted, thankfully -- and whatever Boyd says makes Raylan smile, a startling, bright grin that’s quickly chased away by that fierce, predatory lust.

Raylan arches his body over Boyd’s so he’s practically curved over him, and Tim can see he’s biting the back of Boyd’s neck. Tim shoves his own wrist in his mouth and bites down hard to keep himself from making noise, and when he thinks about what it would feel like on the back of _his_ neck, he comes so hard that it nearly steals his breath, and the only person dying here is him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Tim thinks is a hangover turns out to be the fever of doom, rendering Tim couch-bound while he shivers his way to recovery.

CHAPTER 4

Tim wakes up the next morning, and despite the odd sore throat and the slight headache from his Very Wild Turkey Christmas, he feels...pretty okay.

He lays there for a moment, staring at the ceiling in the bedroom where he’d stumbled into after catching his breath last night. He wonders if he’s freaking out, because Tim doesn’t actually do that so he’s not sure how it’s supposed to feel. He always thought it would feel a lot more...dramatic, than this.

He tries to think about last night in calm, rational terms -- like when he would get to a location and there would be a lack of things he needed, like, say, a room with a window and some power. Or trying to navigate Lexington roads to avoid traffic on UK basketball game day. Use that good old Army training, break down the problem into manageable chunks and start solving. 

_You were tired, probably still drunk and you haven’t been able to get off in a long time. And that was...different....but it at least it wasn’t fake Cinemax porn._

Tim’s inner voice is not being very convincing. It figures, when he _wants_ the Army training to kick in....

Maybe it was all the liquor. And the being half-asleep. He could probably think about it right now and nothing would happen. 

Tim closes his eyes and thinks about last night. About Raylan on his knees, Boyd smacking him, Raylan biting the back of Boyd’s neck. The bite on Tim’s wrist gives a sudden throb, reminding him of its presence and why he’d bitten himself. How it would feel to get bent over a table and fucked by Raylan --

This time, he at least has the presence of mind to bite the pillow instead of his wrist.

Tim showers and he takes a long one, shivering a little in the hot water. He’s not sure what this means, or what he’s supposed to do about any of it. He turns the water up as hot as it will go, the bathroom rapidly filling with steam, but the chill isn’t going away.

He stares at the bite on his wrist for a long time, fingers brushing over it. It hurts, but in a good way -- almost shivery good, the skin is so sensitive and the water just makes it more so. He thinks about Boyd touching Raylan’s face and his cock twitches.

_You have got to be kidding me._

Tim has to admit that he is, in all probability, attracted to Raylan. And even objectively, Raylan is a good-looking guy but it’s likely not even that. It’s the confidence, the way he...shoots people. And the hat -- Tim makes fun of it all the time, but he has to admit Raylan pulls it off where most men couldn’t hope to. So this could be a man-crush, but Tim thinks that’s actually worse than just straight-up attraction. Being physically attracted to Raylan means there are...pheromones and things involved. Things that are beyond his control. 

Maybe the fact he’s not as surprised as he should be is a sign that it’s been there all along, latent and waiting for the right cocky, self-assured, really tall guy to show up and be a pain in the ass. So if he has a type, what is it? Annoying, cocky, and dangerous?

Tim was a Ranger. That described his entire _unit_ , didn’t it? So why wasn’t he attracted to any of them?

_Because you were at war, idiot. You turn that part of yourself off so you can stay alive. It’s about survival, not thinking about if you’d suck anyone’s cock or not._

Tim bangs his head lightly on the shower tiles. He doesn’t know which he prefers, if it’s just Raylan or if he’s really that oblivious to something that’s been there all along. The latter makes him wonder if all those images in his head and this new discovery are somehow related -- like the things he’s been repressing have decided they’d rather show up and join the party. 

The first one, about it being just Raylan -- no. That would make the son-of-a-bitch way too smug, hell no. Tim won’t _let_ it be that, just out of spite. 

_Except does that mean you were attracted to Crowder? He’s annoying, cocky and dangerous too, isn’t ‘he?_

Right, okay, one revelation at a time, here. Tim shuts the water off and grabs a towel, wrapping it around his midsection and stepping out into the steam-filled bathroom. He’s shivering again immediately, and while his headache feels a little better, he definitely needs some coffee. 

He pulls on his jeans but the fabric feels scratchy and uncomfortable, so he shucks them off and goes for the pajama pants, socks, a long-sleeved shirt and his old Army sweatshirt. He’s still freezing, they must not have the heat on or something. Tim makes his way into the kitchen, resolutely not looking in the open door leading to Crowder and Raylan’s bedroom just in case they’re...doing things again.

“About time you woke up, sleepyhead.” Raylan is standing in the kitchen, making breakfast. “Was just about to make sure you weren’t dead and come wake you up. Want some coffee?”

Tim just stares at him, and oh, god, is he _blushing_? This isn’t -- there’s no way he can handle this. He’s cold and his head is fuzzy from the liquor, and none of this makes any sense. Yesterday, Raylan was just his slightly-obnoxious cowboy of a fellow marshal. Now he’s -- something else entirely, and it’s just too much to deal with.

He switches into Ranger-mode, falling into the cold place where he goes in his head when all he has to do is wait. He takes careful note of Raylan standing there, barefoot (is he crazy?) in the kitchen, a mug of coffee in his hand. The windows, which are as snow-covered as ever. The fire in the living room, roaring cheerfully and apparently not reaching where Tim is standing, visibly shivering. The clock on the microwave, which proclaims it to be -- 

“It’s eleven-thirty?” Tim asks, and he sounds vaguely curious but he’s pretty shocked. He never sleeps this late.

“Yeah, it is, Mr. I-Never-Sleep-Past-Six-Thirty.” Raylan grabs a mug and pours coffee into it, sliding it across the counter. He squints at Tim as he walks over and sits at the counter, taking it gratefully. “You okay? You don’t look okay. Hung-over _and_ you slept late? Shit, Gutterson, you are a lot easier to corrupt than I thought or I would have done it earlier.”

Tim sets the mug down without taking a drink. His cool, icy reserve isn’t working like it usually does, so he’s a half-second late in coming up with something to say. “This is Holiday Tim.”

Raylan flashes a grin at him. “Holiday Tim, huh?”

“Yup.” He makes himself take a calm sip of his coffee, trying to climb inside it because he’s so cold. “Just like you’re Holiday Raylan. Holiday Raylan uses peppermint creamer in his coffee, and Holiday Tim sleeps late.”

“Wow, we’re real party animals,” Raylan deadpans. “Want something to eat?” He holds up a small skillet. “Grilled cheese.”

Tim nods, the idea of something warm is very appealing. “You think we could turn on the heat?”

Raylan looks at him like Tim just asked if he could give him a blowjob in the kitchen. Which Tim is not thinking about, no. _No_.

...although that would be pretty funny. Even Holiday Raylan wouldn’t be expecting that. 

“It is on, but I can turn it up.” He doesn’t wait for Tim to nod, he just opens his mouth and yells, “Hey, Boyd, turn up the heat.” Raylan is putting way too much butter in the skillet. Tim wonders if he knows what he’s doing, but he doesn’t feel like asking. 

Crowder comes strolling into the kitchen a few minutes later, that deceptive ambling walk of his like he’s not in a hurry and is made out of patience and saintliness. He gives Tim the same discerning glance as Raylan. “You ain’t lookin’ so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, my friend.”

“We’re not friends.” Tim pauses. “Unless you turned the heat up. Then we can be friends. But only if I’m Holiday Tim. Regulation Hours Tim has to arrest you.”

Boyd looks momentarily thrown by that. “I am not real sure I followed all that, but I did indeed turn up the heat.” He gives Raylan an indescribable glance. “What are you doing to that pan?”

“I’m fixin’ to hit you with it, if you don’t hush,” Raylan drawls, and there’s more Kentucky in his voice than Tim’s ever heard.

He’s going to pretend the sudden heat he just felt is from the furnace kicking on and doing its magic to deliver blessed, magical heat. Yes.

Boyd elbows him out of the way. “I can make it. You ain’t allowed near things that involve the stove, I thought.”

Raylan elbows him back. “Right, I forgot, you have all that experience cooking. Meth,” he adds, and his voice is all false-waspishness.

“Oh, Raylan, I thought you had more faith in my criminal abilities than that. I ain’t twenty-four, son. I got people to do that _for_ me.” Boyd pauses and turns towards Tim. “If I was involved in those kinds of enterprises, of course.”

Tim raises his mug solemnly. “Holiday Tim.”

“Here’s to Holiday Tim, then.” Boyd gives him another strange look, and Tim meets his stare with an even one of his own but he has the sudden, inexplicable thought of _Boyd knows._

Tim is well-trained enough not to give anything away, and sober enough to realize that’s utterly impossible and that he’s making things up. He drinks his coffee and goes back to just watching, taking in the situation like he’s on a mission. The way Raylan’s accent is all smooth curves all of a sudden, with an uptilt that makes him sound just like Crowder.

It makes sense, Tim figures. They’re from the same town, and Raylan’s Southern-ness has never exactly been hidden away -- just his Kentucky, for the most part, and definitely whatever Harlan he’s got left in him.

And here he is, standing in the kitchen hiding nothing. Tim wonders if maybe that’s the thing he finds so attractive about Raylan. Tim can’t seem to _stop_ hiding. 

Crowder...well, that’s a mystery for another day. That, and why he wears his shirts all buttoned up to the top. 

The grilled cheese sandwich he’s presented with is a very strange concoction, indeed -- mainly because it’s made out of a sliced hot-dog bun and American cheese slices. Tim would ask if they did their shopping at a gas station, but even the one he stopped at had turkey sandwiches. Despite the fact he should really be hungry, he can’t seem to do much more than pick at the sandwich, or whatever it’s supposed to be. Of course it could be that he can’t pick it up without getting melted cheese all over his fingers.

“Need a fork, there, Holiday Tim?”

Tim just shakes his head, which makes him feel dizzy. Jesus, he’s had a few hangovers in his day and they’ve never felt quite this awful before. He eats some Doritos (it’s like the never-ending Dorito pantry, which would have been great if he was seven) but they’re hurting his throat. He considers making more coffee, but the thought makes him tired and he’s already kind of shaky, probably from the caffeine.

Raylan leans in closer, and Tim startles in sudden reaction, eyes wide and leaning away from him on instinct. “What?”

“Son, I ain’t no doctor but I think you got a fever,” Raylan tells him. And then, because Tim is apparently cursed, he puts his hand on Tim’s forehead. “Shit, you’re burnin’ up. Boyd, feel this. He’s hot, right?”

“You ain’t gonna get jealous if I say yes, are you?” Boyd laughs and Tim wonders if this is some kind of karmic payback for killing human beings in the name of his country. Because now he’s got both their hands on him, and this is really, really not how he would have preferred that going. If he preferred it at all. Which he didn’t.

 _Well apparently you don’t really know your preferences_ , his inner voice chides.

“Shut up,” Tim says, out loud.

Raylan and Boyd both drop their hands, and a few minutes later Boyd shoves some aspirin at him and Raylan starts looking for tea. Tim just puts his head on the counter and closes his eyes, and for the first time _ever_ he has a momentary longing for Afghanistan -- well, maybe not for the whole _war_ thing. Just the part where he was alone.

* * *  
Three hours later, he’s shivering beneath a pile of blankets on the couch and trying to drink the thing in the mug Raylan brought him.

“It’s a hot toddy,” Raylan tells him, which makes Tim sort of laugh because it sounds silly. It’s apparently supposed to be hot tea, lemon, honey and bourbon. Raylan’s version is warmed-up-in-a-microwave iced tea, sugar packets, a piece of lemon candy he found in a candy dish next to the couch, and a good deal of bourbon.

It’s warm, which is all that matters. And it does make him feel better, though maybe that’s just the bourbon.

Tim’s been sick before, a few times, but he’s never had a fever like this. It’s miserable and he feels achy all over, and after he’s done shivering he’s suddenly so hot it’s like he’s on fire. That’s when he moves downstairs, to escape the heat of the fire that is suddenly an inferno after being completely ineffective.

He watches a few movies, or tries to -- mostly he dozes off and drinks more hot toddies (they’re clearly made mostly of whiskey at this point), takes aspirin as it’s given to him and his throat is so swollen it feels like he’s trying to eat glass when he swallows.

When he’s back to shivering again, he thinks about going upstairs but the idea is exhausting and also boring. Raylan finds a small space heater and Boyd turns the heat up, and at one point he sees them both in jeans and undershirts, obviously way too hot, but neither one of them say anything about it.

Tim’s always been a quick healer, so when he wakes up the next day he fully expects to feel better. Instead, he manages a shower and (thankfully) finds the washing machine to throw his clothes into, but that means he has to borrow some before his are ready to wear again. 

He ends up back on the couch downstairs, wearing a pair of Raylan’s sweatpants that are way too long, a long-sleeved black shirt of Boyd’s, some socks that he doesn’t inquire as to the ownership of, and a large hoodie with a fish on it that Raylan finds in the closet.

It says _Bassmaster_ on it. Cool. At least he’s the master of something, considering he can barely get up the steps on his own. 

Being feverish apparently means Tim doesn’t have a filter of any kind anymore, because at one point he gestures vaguely at the pool table and says, “I’m actually pretty good at that, y’know.”

“You sure weren’t when we played on Christmas, Gutterson, you could barely keep the ball on the table.”

He remembers something about pool tables and Christmas, but that’s not it. Tim shrugs. “We used to have a pool table when I was growing up. My dad sold it right after I won a game for the first time.”

“That’s a dick move, wow. He just didn’t want you to beat him at pool?”

“No,” Tim says, yawning. “Any beating going on in that house, he wasn’t gonna be on the end of it. Guess that’s why he kept the cue sticks.” 

Raylan looks at him like maybe he’s angry. Tim’s too tired to worry about it, so he just falls asleep instead.

* * *  
It gets worse instead of better.

He gets vague impressions of Raylan and Boyd, arguing about if they should take him to a doctor and how to get there. Snow removal has started, but not this far up the mountain, not yet. Tim tries to tell them not to bother, but it hurts too bad to talk.

He’s pretty sure Raylan asks Boyd if he has any Oxy. Boyd just turns around and storms off somewhere, slamming the door. Raylan spends a few hours quietly fuming at staring at the television without turning it on.

“Good drug dealers don’t _take_ drugs, Raylan,” Tim tells him drowsily. “S’probably mad at you ‘cause you think he’s a druggie.”

“I was asking for you!” Raylan snaps.

“S’a fever, don’t take Oxy for that. Don’t want it, anyway.” Tim falls asleep after that but when he wakes up again, Boyd’s back and he and Raylan are talking quietly, so they seem to have made up.

Raylan finally decides he’s going to go out and see if he can find a neighbor with a phone, and nothing Boyd says can change his mind. Boyd says he’ll go with him, but Raylan tells him someone has to stay with Tim. Which makes Tim feel like they’re in one of those survival movies, and he’s the guy in the mountain party with the broken leg or something, and they can’t leave or he’ll get eaten by wolves. 

Tim’s feverish enough that he can admit Crowder’s not that bad. While Raylan’s traipsing around the snow, Boyd makes Tim some soup and brings Tim his own, freshly-laundered Army sweatshirt because the fish one is starting to smell like sweat and sick.

“Ain’t seen one of these in a while,” Boyd says, smiling, handing him the sweatshirt.

Tim appreciates that Boyd doesn’t offer to help him put it on. It takes him a few times, but he manages. He wants to cast the fish hoodie away in a dramatic fashion, but he ends up dropping it on the floor and pretending it was dramatic. “You like being in the Army?”

“It was all right, I suppose.” Crowder is watching him, the afternoon light bringing out the green in his hazel eyes. Tim would have never known in a million years what color eyes he had if not for his blizzard vacation. Something about knowing that makes Crowder more human, a person who has reasons for the things he does. “I was good at some things, pretty bad at others.”

“Yeah?” Tim asks, enough of a question at the end that he hopes Crowder will keep talking. This little trip is just full of things he never thought he’d want, isn’t it? But Crowder’s voice is almost hypnotic when he wants it to be, Tim can see how he ends up leading men into dumb ideologies and dangerous drug missions.

Boyd nods and sips at what Tim thinks is whiskey but could be iced tea. “I was good at the blowin’ stuff up part, but as you might recall, that ain’t a real hard thing to be bad at.”

“You didn’t go to basic with this guy I did. Todd Maris, he was from Austin. He was so bad with grenades we didn’t let him throw the fake ones.”

Boyd laughs. “I was real good at obstacle courses, too. You remember, the belly-crawlin’ through the mud and pullin’ on ropes and all that?”

Tim nods. “Didn’t really like those. Seemed chaotic. I think that’s what convinced me to be a sharpshooter. Everything was just...moving _around_ , and you had too many things to concentrate on at once.”

“I can imagine it wouldn’t be much fun for someone with your skill set, no.”

“But you liked it?”

“Oh, yeah. I liked it. Reminded me of running through the woods, I guess. Also, you may’ve noticed, I got a bit of a tendency to think I’m invincible.”

That makes Tim laugh, weak as it is. “Never noticed.”

“Right. Anyway, I’d always make it back from that, even if nobody else did. They thought I was good at it so they had me lead the platoon through a few times. ‘Bout the only time I ever led anything, as I recall.” 

“And how’d that go?”

Boyd meets his eyes with an even stare. “I always made it back from those, too.”

Meaning his men probably didn’t. Tim just nods. The Army doesn’t really encourage the _do everything to ensure your own survival_ way of thinking, which is probably why Boyd left. Then again, for all Tim knows, maybe he retired. He really doesn’t know that much about Boyd Crowder at all. “Why’d you enlist?”

It’s a personal question, and Tim can tell Crowder’s not sure about whether or not he wants to answer it. “I was angry.”

That’s not what Tim expects him to say at all, and it’s uncomfortably familiar. “Me, too. At my dad, but kind of at everyone. Mostly my dad, though.” He’s never said that to anyone, ever, but if he’s going to confess dark things he’s probably picked the right priest. “How about you? Who were you mad at?”

“Raylan, mostly,” Boyd says, easy enough that Tim’s almost tricked into thinking he doesn’t mind discussing it. The light is still coming into the room, but Boyd’s eyes don’t look so bright anymore.

Normally Tim would let it drop, but his normal levels of social appropriateness are blown to hell at the moment. “What were you mad at Raylan for?”

Boyd’s eyes are on him, but he doesn’t look like he sees Tim at all. “Leaving.”

“Leaving...Harlan?”

Boyd stands up in one motion, graceful and tense at the same time. “No, not leaving Harlan. I’ll go get you some more aspirin.” He turns and heads up to the stairs.

He’s halfway to the kitchen before Tim realizes exactly what it was that Raylan left. 

Oh.

* * * 

Raylan comes back without any luck. The roads are still snowed in and there’s no cabin around, which, as he tells Boyd, is exactly what the website promised when they booked it for their vacation.

Tim gargles with salt-water, which is totally gross and does actually make him feel a little better. Or maybe it’s the whiskey he chases it with, who knows. “I can probably try and drive tomorrow,” he croaks, feeling guilty about how completely and utterly he’s ruined Raylan’s vacation. 

All Raylan does in response to that is snort.

Tim thinks about doing it anyway, getting up and just driving -- he feels awful but it isn’t like he’s going to be going very _fast_ , right? So what if it takes him two hours to get his stuff from the house and surreptitiously pack it up in his duffle bag, and that he’s covered in cold sweat and shaking from effort when he’s finished?

He’s a goddamn soldier. A US Marshal. Tim selectively forgets how that thinking got him into this mess, by making him drive through a blizzard just to prove some kind of point. He pretends to go to bed early, dresses in jeans and warm socks, puts his boots by his bedroom door and sets his alarm for four in the morning. He puts it on vibrate underneath his pillow, and tries to ignore that his room is cold and dark and that he’s used to sleeping on the living room couch where there are other people and _heat_.

At some point he hears Boyd and Raylan come upstairs, and the low murmur of voices that gradually fall silent. Tim shivers in his bed, the sheets cold even beneath his layers of clothing. He tries to get some sleep.

At four, he wakes up and puts his boots on, grabs his bag, then tiptoes silently to the kitchen. He scribbles _I’m fine_ on a napkin and goes to the front door, remembering at the last moment to grab the keys where he’d tossed them on the little table in the foyer the first night he’d shown up. He’d checked on his way to bed last night, just to make sure they were there.

They’re not there.

What the...?

“Lookin’ for these?”

He turns around and sees Raylan leaning against the doorway, dangling his keys.

“Yeah. You should put them back if you borrow my car.”

“It’s not yours, Tim, and you’re a goddamn idiot,” Raylan snaps, walking over and grabbing him by the arm.

“Ow! Hey! Stop, what -- I’m sick, you asshole --”

“Oh, you are? I hadn’t realize, with all the sneaking around to leave you’ve been doing.” Raylan drags him back towards the bedroom, but Tim digs his boots into the carpet like a petulant five-year-old and tries to stop.

“No. I’m not going back in there. It’s cold.”

“As compared to outside and the snow-covered car?”

Tim hadn’t even thought about that part. “Damn it.”

“Gutterson, I am assumin’ this is your fever at work because I would like to have more faith in our Special Forces, I really would.” Raylan turns neatly and keeps dragging him towards the couch in the upstairs living room.

“No, I hate this couch. It’s _lumpy_ and you know, it kind of sucks to lay up there and watch people having fun in the mirror and why are you staring at me?” Tim blinks, swaying a bit on his feet. He pulls at Raylan’s grip on his arm. “Raylan?”

Raylan’s giving him a look that Tim can’t figure out, and he’s tired and feels like he’s going to fall over so, granted, he doesn’t try very hard. “Fine. Think you can make it down the stairs?”

“I hate you.” Tim sighs and crankily pulls his arm away from Raylan, not wanting any assistance whatsoever. He gets down the stairs by himself but he’s covered in sweat again, shivering and okay, yeah, maybe leaving wasn’t such a great idea.

Raylan gets him back on the couch, and Tim pretends to hate everything about the heater being switched on and the blankets being piled on him. Though Raylan is kind of doing that harder than he probably needs to.

“Why were you trying to leave?”

“Seriously?” Tim shivers, relieved as a little warmth starts seeping through the chill. “This from the man who escaped from a gas station.”

“Yeah, I had a reason and that was investigating things of a dangerous and potentially deadly nature. I told you I was gonna do it, remember? You were, what, gettin’ a jump start on the New Year’s Eve traffic?”

Oh, god, it _is_ getting close to New Year’s Eve. Fuck everything, why is he still _here_? “No, I was trying to leave because I’ve ruined your vacation and you’re supposed to be...bending Crowder over pool tables, not walking around in the goddamn snow looking for someone with a thermometer and a bag of cough drops.”

Raylan’s eyes are sharp. “Don’t tell me how to spend my vacation, you don’t know anything about my leisure activities.” His eyebrows go up. “Or, maybe you do, and that’s why you’re leavin’.”

The truth of that hits so close to home it’s uncomfortable, but not in the way Raylan probably thinks. Tim looks away, his voice tired. “I don’t like being a burden, all right?”

“Good, then _stay the fuck where you are_. Because bringin’ you a few aspirin and some soup every few hours is a lot better than scaling down the goddamn Smoky Mountains looking for your stupid ass _in the snow_. Goddamn it, Tim.”

Tim has to admit that Raylan’s got a point. “How’d you know I was going to do that?”

“What, try leaving? Well, wasn’t too hard considerin’ you told me. _I’m okay to drive, Raylan._ ” Raylan’s attempts at mimicking his voice sound suspiciously like a cartoon.

Tim can’t seem to stop shivering. “Shut up. Fuck, what is wrong with me? I never get sick, and I shouldn’t be here and the next time I feel lonely at least I’ll remember this trip and not offer to go into work on a holiday.”

“You felt lonely, huh?”

Tim pulls the blanket over his head. “Go away, Raylan.”

“You’re not going to try and leave again.”

“I won’t leave, fine.”

“You’re not goin’ anywhere, ‘cause I got the keys. I meant you won’t _try_.”

Tim drops the blanket. He gives Raylan a small, rueful grin. “I’m no expert, but this sure as hell sounds like irony.”

“No, it’s stupidity.” Raylan looks genuinely pissed off. “I don’t know what kind of person you think I am, but I ain’t about to let a friend of mine go drivin’ off a goddamn mountain so I can have two days alone with my -- with Boyd.”

“You could just call him your boyfriend, you know.”

“What?” Raylan scowls at him, arms crossed. Tim realizes he’s not wearing a shirt. Not even one of those white ones he’s always wearing.

“I mean, Raylan. You say _fixin’_ around him. Call it what it is, man.”

“What I’m _fixin’_ to do is smother you with a pillow’.” Raylan points at him. “And stop tryin’ to change the subject.”

They stare at each other for a few seconds. Tim can feel the fever inside him, stirring and rising like a living thing. “I don’t really know what we’re talking about, though.”

“I might be -- Boyd’s my -- look, I know you ain’t got the best opinion of me, probably, and maybe knowin’ who I’m spendin’ time with makes you doubt my...law-official credibility or somethin’ but --”

“Raylan,” Tim interjects, but it doesn’t work. Raylan’s used to Crowder, so he just keeps talking. Louder, which means that now he’s shouting. 

“ -- but that don’t mean I’m some despicable person who ain’t capable of bein’ decent to a friend.”

Tim blinks, slowly, like a sleepy owl. “There were a lot of double-negatives in that sentence.”

“He’s tryin’ to say just ‘cause I’m a criminal don’t mean he’s incapable of bein’ your friend, Gutterson.”

Tim looks over to see Crowder sitting on the stairs, watching them. “That’s so stupid I can’t even tell you how stupid it is.”

“Don’t tell me,” Boyd suggests, nodding over at Raylan. “He’s the one who concocts these scenarios in the dark of night.”

“Raylan, that’s dumb. That’s not why I left, I told you. I don’t like being a burden and can we not talk about this?”

Raylan looks like he’s going to argue, but Boyd leaps off the stairs and walks over, hauling Raylan unceremoniously towards the stairs. “Get some sleep, Timothy. Raylan. Come on.”

Raylan resists for a moment but he finally lets Boyd pull him over to the stairs.

“Hey, Raylan?”

“What?”

Tim wants to tell him that he doesn’t think Raylan’s a bad person, not at all. That he realizes the history between him and Crowder isn’t something that’s easy to understand. That he’s sure there’s more to Crowder than a criminal and a killer -- the man brought Tim soup, for fuck’s sake.Tim wants to tell him that he actually finds Raylan’s loyalty and fierce dedication admirable, in a weird way, because everyone Tim’s ever loved has always let him down.

All he can come up with is, “Thanks for not letting me leave,” but he figures it’s close enough.


	5. chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Tim confesses, gets better, and gets laid.

The fever starts to spike later that day. It’s bad, enough that he would have certainly been in a great deal of trouble if he’d tried driving down a mountain with snow-covered roads. 

He lays deliriously on the couch, shivering hard and confused why someone keeps putting ice wrapped in towels on his forehead. He’s so cold and it’s hard to think, and at some point he thinks with startling, feverish clarity that he’s dying.

He’s going to die in a _Bassmaster_ hoodie. There is no justice. 

And for Tim, being on his deathbed apparently means sharing his thoughts and feelings, because suddenly he can’t stop talking. Everyone always confesses at this point, don’t they? Movies wouldn’t lie. 

“We weren’t supposed to think they were people we knew,” he tells Boyd, staring at him with eyes that feel as if they are burning out of his head.

“Who’s that? The people you shot?”

Tim nods. “Sometimes I did, though. Think of them that way.” 

Boyd puts down the book he’s reading. Something about fire, Tim can’t make out the name. “You look down the scope and see your daddy, is that what you’re tryin’ to say?”

“Yeah. At first. But I had to stop, ‘cause it made me...you know.” Tim turns his head, which makes it seem like the room hasn’t quite caught up with him yet. 

“Yeah,” Boyd says quietly. “I know.” 

“Right. And you know, you gotta go...away. In here.” Tim taps himself on the side of the head. “Someplace where you you can shoot people after doing nothing but watch them live their life for a few days. So they teach us how to get there, but they never taught us how to come back. They teach you that, Crowder?”

Boyd looks, of all things, sad. “They surely did not, son.”

“Are you still mad at Raylan for leaving you?” 

Boyd’s eyes are bright, like he’s the one with the fever, now. “No.”

“How’d you get less mad? Don’t think it was the Army, huh.”

“No. Ain’t nothin’ the Army can do to make you forgive, son. Just forget. Forgiveness comes from someplace else.”

Tim stares down at the blanket. “I don’t know how to get there, either.” He leans his head back against the pillow. 

“Ain’t no man who can tell you how to get there but yourself,” Boyd says quietly. 

“Some people think it’s easier,” Tim murmurs, drowsy again. “The way I did it.” 

“You mean, shooting a man? Ending his life?” 

“Yeah.” Tim’s eyes keep trying to close, but he forces them to stay open and focused on Boyd. “I think about it, sometimes. Especially when I’m with someone, and they look at me and I can’t hide. I wonder if it would be harder to do it or not.” 

“Now, I ain’t ever had your job, son. But I don’t think I could take a man’s life without makin’ sure he knew why I was doin’ it, so it seems like it might be harder, doin’ it your way.” 

“But that still doesn’t make it easier, does it.” Tim’s voice is barely above a whisper, but Boyd hears him anyway. 

“No. It don’t make it easier.” 

“I’d say it was safer, but I don’t think it is.” Tim smiles, brief and fleeting. “I had a price on my head. Fifteen thousand dead, twenty-five thousand alive. Took me awhile to figure out why it was so much more if I was alive.” 

“Goddamn. I must admit I am impressed, Timothy.” Boyd stands up, gently lays a hand on Tim’s forehead. Tim thinks he’s freezing but when he feels how cool Boyd’s hand is, he realizes he isn’t. 

“I never used to think about this shit, and now I can’t seem to stop.” Tim barely is aware of what he’s saying, of how all the barriers he’s put up are burning down one by one.

Boyd smiles and runs his fingers through Tim’s hair in a strangely affectionate gesture. “Ain’t much you can do when the light comes in but let it, son. Trust me. You’ll think you’re goin’ blind and it’ll hurt when it burns away all your dark corners, but it’s a lot better.”

“Why’s that?” Tim’s not sure he’s following this conversation. 

“Because then you can see,” Boyd says simply, like it’s obvious.

Maybe it is.

* * *

Two hours later, Tim wakes up covered in sweat, his fever having finally broken. He’s wearing some strange mix of clothing; his own, Raylan’s, even Boyd’s. But for the first time in what feels like _days_ he isn’t shivering, and is actually a little too warm. 

He also really wants a shower and he’s _starving_ , god. He thinks about a cheeseburger and his mouth waters immediately. Probably he’s going to end up with soup, but maybe it will have some kind of...cheeseburger flavor? Whatever, really at this point he’ll take anything. Except maybe Doritos.

Tim stands up and stretches, feels the pleasurable pull in his muscles. Outside, the moon is a cold glance off of bright, white snow. The clock tells him it’s a little after two in the morning. Tim has no immediate idea what day it is, and he’s too tired and relieved to think about it.

He goes upstairs and climbs into bed, stripped down to his boxers and an undershirt that is most likely Raylan’s. For a long time he lays there, quiet, waiting with something like dread for the fever to start up again. But his sleep is untroubled by either fever or dreams, and he wakes up to the sun spilling in and the snow going _drip drip drip_ as it melts against the windows. Things could be worse.

_You’ll think you’re going blind and it will burn away all your dark corners, but it’ll be a lot better after that._

_I guess it’s time to find out,_ thinks Tim, and goes to take a shower.

* * *  
“Can I talk to you for a second?”

Boyd looks up at him from his book, face registering brief surprise when he realizes Tim’s speaking to him from the small kitchen. “Of course. What’s on your mind, Agent Gutterson?”

“Maybe -- um. Maybe just call me Tim.”

“Tim, then,” Boyd says agreeably. He leans back against the chair, watching him expectantly.

Tim takes a breath. “Look, I was really sick there for a few days.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Boyd’s eyes go wide, but then he winks. “Yes, you were.”

“And,” Tim says pointedly, ignoring him, “I know I said a lot of things while I was delirious with whatever the hell that was.” Tim pauses, suddenly distracted. “What the hell was that, anyway?”

“I don’t rightly know. Let’s hope for our sake it was a bacterial infection, and it ain’t catching. Didn’t look like a particularly enjoyable experience.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t. Anyway, Boyd, I just wanted to say thanks for, you know. Not letting me die, and shit.” There. That’s definitely gratitude, right? He really _is_ grateful. “And if you don’t fuck with Raylan, then I will totally come and talk to you at the Christmas party and watch everyone’s head explode. It’ll be great.” 

“You may have to define _fuck with_.” 

Shit, he can’t even blame the fever for how his face heats up at that. “You know what I mean.” Tim holds his hand out. 

Boyd meets his eyes, his gaze as steady as Tim’s own, and shakes his hand firm and strong. 

Almost immediately after their handshake, Raylan comes through a door in the kitchen that Tim had yet to notice even _existed_. He’s making a loud, yelling noise and holding up something wrapped in crisp, white paper.

“I did not find a snow shovel, but I did find the meat freezer,” Raylan says, obviously pleased with himself. “And we can stop worryin’ about eatin’ nothing but Doritos and hot dogs without buns, because I have found _steak_. There’s more stuff, too, but I figured the sooner this thawed, the sooner we could stop eating like I did in college and eat like _men_.”

TIm would point out how Raylan eats like this all the time, with the hot dogs and Doritos, but his mouth starts watering immediately at the idea of eating actual steak. Raylan deposits the package on the counter and goes back into the garage.

Tim catches Boyd’s arm as he walks by him into the kitchen. “Wait. Do me this favor, and I won’t just stand by you at the party, I’ll bring you a goddamn plate of mini-quiches and whatever.”

Boyd raises his eyebrows but says nothing, waiting.

“For the love of god, don’t let Raylan cook that steak. _Please_.”

Boyd assents and gives him a slow smile that does something weird to Tim’s equilibrium. He’s going to blame it on the thought of steak after days of soup, water and an absurdly high body temperature. 

The day passes in a much more pleasant fashion than the previous few.

Outside, the snow continues to melt. Inside, they occupy themselves with board games and the pool table, and now that he is no longer drunk or feverish, Tim’s competitive edge comes back with a vengeance. He wins two games of pool, an Uno game, and beats Raylan three times at _Connect Four_. 

“Raylan only can connect three things at most,” Boyd tells him, laughing. He doesn’t seem to mind losing as long as Raylan does, too. 

“We should’ve played a few days ago,” Raylan mutters. “Bet I would’ve won.”

“You mean when I was delirious with a fever?”

“Yup.” Raylan grins, unabashed. “Holiday Raylan don’t really play fair, Timothy.”

Tim throws one of the little round game pieces at him. “Is there one that does? Because I must not have met that one.”

Raylan just shrugs and throws it back. “At least I’m consistent.”

After that, Boyd kicks both their asses at _Scrabble_ and _Boggle_ , which Raylan says is fine because it’s all about words and he and Tim are _men of the gun_ and rely on intuition and the power of justice. 

Then Boyd beats them both at _Clue_ , at which point game time seems to be over. 

Despite never, ever wanting to take a nap again, Tim finds himself dozing off again after lunch. He supposes it makes sense given how sick he was, but it’s still annoying. He wakes up on the couch downstairs, momentarily afraid he’s still sick and his fever dream was all about _not_ having a fever, but luckily he’s just groggy and a little hungry.

When he heads upstairs, he doesn’t see Raylan or Boyd. The door to their room is closed, and Tim suddenly feels like he _does_ have a fever again, flushed and hot but he knows it’s totally different. He keeps thinking about knocking on the door, and the more he tells himself not to, the more he thinks about it.

Instead, he takes a shower and jerks off to the thought of what might have happened if he had. The fantasy version, where Raylan pinned him to the bed, not the probable-reality one where he stammered awkwardly and Boyd Crowder laughed at him until Tim hastily excused himself and left. Tim sinks his teeth into the faded bite on his wrist when he comes, his brain blissfully free of death and targets and anything but how good it feels. 

When he’s done in the shower, he tarries a little longer in his bedroom until he hears noises in the kitchen, then goes out into the living room. Boyd and Raylan both have damp hair, too, which immediately makes Tim think about Raylan in the shower. Great, that is definitely what he needs to be doing.

It’s obvious Tim’s attracted to Raylan, so instead of fighting it or explaining it away, he just accepts it for what it is and tries to get past it. Nothing’s going to happen, and anyway, it wouldn’t be a good idea even if the chance presented itself. Which it isn’t going to.

Tim watches Raylan making drinks (the whiskey has yet to run out, a Christmas miracle if there ever was one), and when Raylan moves, Tim can see the flash of reddened, bitten skin on his upper shoulder beneath his open shirt.

He finds himself looking at it more than he should, covertly, which he’s very good at. There’s another one on the other side, and it looks just as fresh. Tim wishes Raylan would button his damn shirt because it’s very hard to pay attention to what’s going on, and it distracts him so much that Raylan asks him bluntly if he’s feeling all right. 

At one point, he looks up from where he’s making rice and finds Crowder watching him. Tim again has that same flash of _he knows_ , but he’s probably just being paranoid. Boyd might be good at reading people or whatever, but there’s no _way_ he figured that out about Tim when Tim barely admitted it to himself. 

He forgets about everything at dinner, though, and Boyd is temporarily forgiven from all misdeeds thanks to the steak he hands Tim. It’s perfectly medium-rare, juicy and warm and it’s so good he nearly starts thinking about killing people, because apparently that’s what his brain does when things start feeling good.

They’re all quiet during dinner, and Tim supposes Raylan and Boyd are just as sick of hot dogs as he is of soup, so they’re enjoying this just as much. A few times though, he catches Boyd and Raylan giving each other significant-type looks across the table. There’s a weird tension and Tim can’t place it, but he’s going to be slightly jealous if they get to have steak _and_ go fuck and he just...gets to watch some movies on the couch. Alone.

Again.

Is that the recurring theme of his holiday or something? Maybe if he’s lucky, _Act of Valor_ will be on pay-per-view! And holy fuck, it makes a _lot_ more sense now, about why he wanted to watch that movie. Fuck. Tim thinks briefly about stabbing himself with his steak knife. Instead, he offers to clean up and do the dishes, hoping to distract himself. 

Raylan and Boyd disappear somewhere, Tim doesn’t know if they went downstairs or into their room and he doesn’t like thinking about it. 

He’s surprised when he’s finishing the dishes up and they come back, though Boyd goes downstairs and Raylan ends up sprawled in his pornographic lean against the pantry door, watching him. Had Tim really never noticed that before, about Raylan? Jesus, he was either more repressed than he thought, or there was some kind of magic in the snow.

_I hope it’s the latter. Just because that’d be unexpected._

“You feelin’ better?”

Tim nods, not looking up from the sink. There’s an immediate, strange tension and it’s just like dinner but it’s different, too -- and it takes him a minute to figure out that’s because Raylan is looking at him, not Boyd.

 _Calm down, Casanova. If you’re this into guys, you can get some kind of website premium membership when you get home._ “Yeah.” Tim’s not extraordinarily wordy, and he’s feeling uncustomarily shy for some reason.

“Lookin’ a little flushed, there.”

“Probably the whiskey,” Tim answers easily, holding up his glass with his left hand and swishing it around. It’s not, this is still his first glass and he’s barely had that much of it. There’s a strange, electric zing running through him and he’s not sure he likes it or how it’s making him act.

He definitely doesn’t like how Raylan is suddenly standing right behind him, and how Tim hadn’t even realized he’d _moved_. Raylan is too close, one hand braced on the cabinet above the counter. He leans in and Tim fights to keep his breathing even, to keep from jumping a mile in the air when he feels Raylan’s breath warm on his neck. 

And he thought Raylan was overwhelming _before_. 

“You think we should talk about this, Gutterson?”

“About the dishes?” When in doubt, always go for sarcasm. It’s so much better than stammering or dropping a plate on your foot.

“No.” Raylan stays there, crowding his space, and Tim doesn’t like that at all. It’s equal parts attractive and infuriating, and he’s a little more tuned in to the infuriating because the first one scares the shit out of him. “Was talkin’ about somethin’ else.”

“I”m not going to tell Art you’re here with Crowder, if that’s what you mean,” Tim says, rubbing at the dish so hard he’s pretty sure he’s scrubbing off the dumb chicken pattern. Wait, so now he’s rubbing cocks on a dinner plate? What the fuck is this, an episode of _Punk’d_?

“Why would I care about that?” Raylan asks, not moving. “He’s the one that told me to get out of town for the holiday, ‘cause if I caused trouble with my _low-life thug boyfrend, no offense, Raylan, sorry you don’t have better taste, I bet it’s all those daddy issues_ , I’d end up grounded with paperwork and making you and Rachel’s coffee for two months.”

Wait, Art knows about Crowder? At some point when he’s not trying to breathe and ignore how warm Raylan is behind him, he’ll have to think about that some more. 

Tim puts the plate on the side of the sink, forcing himself not to move away from Raylan even though he really wants to. This isn’t fair, he’s not ready and this is supposed to go away after he watches some kind of male-male porn at home. Enough so the novelty wears off and the horrible things in his head come back, because they will and then he’ll just be sexually dissatisfied with one gender instead of two.

“Okay, so it’s not that...is it about your lack of a personal space concept?” Tim chides himself for being a coward and turns his head to look up at Raylan, and he doesn’t know what to do with the way Raylan’s looking at him so he chooses to ignore it. “Because you’re right, Raylan. That’s a problem we should address.”

Raylan smiles at him, sharp and mischievous like a broken toy that’s waiting on the floor to trip somebody. And then, quick as a whip, he reaches out and wraps his long fingers around Tim’s left wrist and pulls it out of the soapy water. The left wrist that’s bare because his sleeves are pushed up to do the dishes. The left wrist he just showed off when he waved his drink sarcastically at Raylan a moment ago.

The left wrist he bit the fuck out of in the shower. 

Damn it. 

“I was talking about this,” Raylan says easily, and rubs his thumb, slow and deliberate, over the bite Tim is hoping like hell he didn’t notice.

The shock of it makes Tim drop the plate he’s holding into the sink. It makes a loud _clang_ noise and some water splashes out and onto his shirt. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

“What about it.” Tim says it flatly, but he’s grabbing at the sink with his free hand, fingers curling desperately into the slick white porcelain like he’s trying to keep his balance.

Raylan’s thumb pushes lightly into the bruised skin. “Look at me.”

Tim bites back a noise, but only barely. He shakes his head slightly, staring into the soapy water. “No.”

“I’m just gonna make you do it anyway.” He lifts Tim’s wrist, and Tim doesn’t stop him but he doesn’t look at him, either.

“Do what you gotta do, Raylan,” Tim bites out, and he’s breathing too fast and still staring down into the soapy water, resolute and stubborn and then Raylan’s mouth glides over his wrist and that’s it, it’s over.

The floodlights are on and there are no more corners left in which to hide, dark or otherwise.

Tim pulls at his wrist but Raylan doesn’t let go, though he doesn’t stop Tim from scrambling back and hitting the counter with his back. “Raylan.”

“Hmm?” Raylan’s watching him, his eyes glittering. He kisses at Tim’s wrist again, and watching him do it is even worse than just feeling it. 

Tim’s eyes are wide and he’s too freaked out to recognize the way Raylan’s looking at him for what it is, how it’s similar to the looks he gives Boyd. He’s just aware of his heart racing and the heat that shoots like a current straight through him, Raylan’s mouth like a brand burning his skin.

Tim struggles to find his words. “You -- stop. Don’t -- oh,” he sucks in a breath, feeling Raylan’s tongue flicking against the slight indentations. He has a feeling he knows what’s coming next, and if he does it -- fuck Crowder and his _dark corners_ , Raylan’s going to set him on fire and light him up and there won’t be anything left of him at all.

Raylan sees it in his eyes, of course he does. Tim draws in a slow, shaky breath. “Please, I --” 

Raylan bites him and the words _don’t want this_ fall to ashes, and Tim can’t do anything but stand there and burn.

* * *  
Raylan doesn’t do anything overt, just stands there and kisses, licks, bites at his wrist. It’s driving Tim crazy, but he doesn’t want him to stop, either. “What -- how --”

Raylan bites again, watching with hot eyes as Tim reacts. He takes his time pulling his mouth away to answer it. “I might not be the smartest cookie in the tin, Gutterson, but I ain’t stupid.”

Tim has to swallow three times before he can speak. “Crowder?”

A flash of annoyance sparks in Raylan’s eyes, and Tim _really_ likes that, though in all fairness it might be because he bites Tim a lot harder when Tim says it. “Maybe he brought it up, fine. I thought he was just, y’know. Biased. Since he’s got a thing for me.”

Tim makes a face, which probably looks half-desperate and half-terrified. Great, that’s sure hot. “You really -- do you have some kind of magic power? You’re not even wearing that hat, so don’t say that or I’ll kick you. I can still kick you,” he adds, hastily.

Raylan gives him an infuriatingly smug grin and pulls Tim towards him, moving him so that he can back Tim up against the fridge. “You could try.” He thinks about that for a second and then shakes his head. “No, I changed my mind. Don’t try.”

“That might make me.” Tim is barely aware of what he’s saying. Raylan has him pressed against a fridge, of all things, and he’s way too close to him and getting closer.

Raylan gets ahold of Tim’s other wrist, and then he pins them back against the metal with his own. “Then I guess I better give you a reason not to,” he murmurs, and then his mouth on Tim’s, and Raylan’s kissing him.

_Raylan is kissing him._

Tim just stands there because he’s not entirely convinced this is happening, and Raylan’s pinning him so he can’t really do anything anyway. Raylan tastes like whiskey, a little, and he’s kissing him all slow and heated like he has all the time in the world. For exactly point two seconds, that is, and then he’s kissing Tim like he’s trying to start a fight. He’s practically throwing his body forward, slamming Tim back against the fridge over and over.

Tim kisses him back, less like he’s fighting and more like he’s trying to keep up. Which is what he’s doing. It’s overwhelming and hot and the next time Raylan’s hips slam into him, Tim shoves his right back and then makes a noise he hopes to god Raylan doesn’t hear into his mouth.

When Raylan pulls away, he’s grinning and wild-eyed and Tim is trying to stop himself from rubbing against him and totally failing. “So. Guess you know what I’m talking about, then.”

“Yeah.” Tim blinks, half-lost to how good it feels and wanting Raylan to just keep going and not talk, to …. do things to him without pause or a chance for Tim to think and freak out about it.

But asking Raylan not to talk is probably like asking Gatlinburg to have an army full of snow plows on retainer. And Tim changes his mind about that not-talking thing anyway, when Raylan leans in and breathes against his ear, which would be hot even if he didn’t say, “Come to bed with me,” while he did it.

“Raylan,” Tim protests, tugging at his wrists and trying to get them free. Raylan fights it, tightens his fingers and the pressure against his bruised wrist makes Tim moan and shudder hard against him, half-hating him in that moment for how easy he’s doing this to him.

Then Raylan lets his hands go, and steps away. His eyes are still blurry and Tim misses how warm he is immediately, misses the roughness and the pressure and everything else. “You don’t have to,” he says, almost like he’s insulted. “It’s an invitation.”

Tim likes how fast Raylan’s breathing, the way his fingers are twitching restlessly at his sides. “Sounded like an order.”

“That’s kinda how I figured you liked it.”

Goddamn it, is nothing fair? Tim bangs his head back against the fridge and stares up at the ceiling. He needs to get his head on straight, quick, because if Raylan puts his hands on him again Tim is going to go wherever the fuck Raylan wants him to. “You -- Crowder?” he asks, almost foolishly, as if he maybe should have asked that question about two steps ago.

Raylan grins, and moves in close again -- he’s clearly not going to make this easy -- and while he’s not pressed up against him like before he’s still right _there_ , fingers tracing Tim’s jaw, his collarbone. “Boyd has a few astonishingly non-duplicitous qualities mixed in with all the regular, duplicitous ones. He ain’t the jealous type. And he’s a freak, so he kinda likes sharing.” Raylan bites gently at Tim’s ear. “He don’t mind, though. You can ask him yourself, if you want to.”

Tim pushes him away, gently, wondering idly why he’s being so stubborn when they both know he’s going to go to bed with him. “We work together, Raylan.”

Raylan’s eyes widen and he hits his forehead with the palm of his hand. “ _That’s_ why you look so familiar!” His voice turns serious again. “Look, Tim, you ain’t gotta worry, I’m not gonna...make a thing about it. Either way, yes or no.” 

“What happens in the Secluded Mountain Cabin of Doom stays in the Secluded Mountain Cabin of Doom?” Tim asks, his heart starting to pound in chest again. He’s going to say yes. Of course he is.

“Exactly,” Raylan says. Then he holds his hand out. “Come to bed with me.”

Tim almost reaches out. Almost. Then he grins, something tight loosening up in his chest. “Lame. I expected better, cowboy. You want me there, get me there.” It’s clearly a _yes_ , but it’s also a subtle (or maybe not-so-subtle) hint about what Tim wants from him. 

Raylan groans and rolls his eyes, roughly grabbing at Tim’s arm and pulling him away from the fridge and through the kitchen. “Boyd! You were right, fine, I owe you another twenty.”

“Told you, Raylan,” Boyd’s voice comes from downstairs, amused and not at all angry. “You have a type.”

This is way too weird. But before Tim can think about changing his mind, Raylan has him in the bedroom and is kissing him again, hands pulling at his shirt and pushing him towards the bed at the same time. It gets a lot less weird and a lot more hot, and then he’s on his back on the bed and Raylan is crawling up towards him, all energy and hands and enthusiasm.

“You’re so...” Tim waves his hands, momentarily at a loss for words.

Raylan, kneeling on either side of him and in the midst of undoing his shirt, pauses and flashes a ridiculous smile at him. “What? Hot? Amazing? Good at sex? I’m so what, huh?”

“Humble,” Tim says, seriously, but he smiles when Raylan laughs. “You’re going really fast, is all.”

“Oh, sorry. Geez, I got you a steak dinner first, what else do you want, princess?” Raylan finishes and tosses his shirt aside. He goes to take off the undershirt, but Tim clears his throat. Raylan raises his eyebrows expectantly.

“You could leave that on,” Tim says breezily. Or that’s how he wants it to sound. 

Raylan’s smug grin tells him that is not how it sounded at all. “Sure. What else do you want?” He pushes at Tim’s chest to get him on his back.

“I, ah.” Tim stares up at him, lifts his hands and tentatively puts them on Raylan’s shoulders. It’s ridiculous but he can’t help feeling like this is the first time he’s ever done this. Which it is, technically, but it also...isn’t. “Don’t really know what I’m doing.”

Raylan makes an encouraging noise and settles his weight over him, leaning in to kiss him. “I know. I like it.” He smiles against Tim’s mouth. “Touch me. Go on.”

“If you say _I know you want to_ , I’m kicking you in the balls,” Tim tells him, seriously enough. He does touch him, though, fingers moving down his back. He doesn’t feel anything like a girl, obviously, but it’s no less hot. Just different. “How?”

“With your hands are a good start.” 

Tim smacks at him with his hand. “How do you _like_ it, I mean.”

Raylan’s eyes flare hot and he sucks in a breath -- then he smiles in that way he did earlier, in the kitchen, and leans in slow to kiss at Tim’s neck. “Well, now, I thought you would have figured that out. Seein’ as how you watched, and all.”

Tim groans and shoves at his shoulders, but Raylan just bites him sharply and doesn’t move. He also grinds his hips down hard against Tim’s, which feels so good he can’t stop himself from making noise or from pushing his hips up and grinding back. “How the -- Crowder guess that, too?”

“Nope. You told me.” Raylan licks at his neck, grinding until Tim’s breathless and digging into his shoulders with his fingers. “You were delirious but you said somethin’ about _watching you have fun while I’m on the couch_ and _bending Crowder over the pool table._ I put the rest together myself.”

“You did? You must be so proud.”

“I am. Now I got you beneath me, so hot for it that I bet I could make you come before I even got your pants off, couldn’t I?”

Tim loses his breath at that, and he almost _does_. “Fuck, Raylan,” he mutters, trying to get himself under control -- it’s one thing to feel like this is the first time, it’s another to actually perform like it is. “Probably, but I bet I’d like it a lot more if you didn’t.”

Raylan nips his neck again before pulling back to look at him. “Since you asked so nice.” His hands start undoing Tim’s belt. “What part did you like? Tell me.”

Tim isn’t shy in bed, necessarily, but he’s never been very...fuck, _engaged_ sounds like a terrible thing to say, but it’s probably true. Raylan isn’t letting him be anything else, he’s keeping Tim right with him in the moment and it’s hot but it’s also kind of daunting.

But he doesn’t mind a challenge, and so he thinks about it while he rubs his fingers over the bites Boyd left on Raylan’s chest. “I liked how you looked on your knees.”

Raylan’s stare is intense, heated. He pulls Tim’s belt out of the loops slowly. “Did you.”

Tim nods, moving restlessly beneath Raylan. “Yeah. I liked it when Crowder smacked you.” He reaches up and carefully touches the side of Raylan’s face. “God knows we’ve all wanted to do that on occasion.”

Raylan grabs his wrist and pulls it away, pinning it on the bed. His other hand is at the button of Tim’s jeans. Tim’s finding it hard to breathe, to think, to do anything but stare down at Raylan’s hand as it works his zipper down. “Well, now, I don’t get on my knees and let just anyone smack me around, Tim. You gotta earn it.”

All Tim can do to that is arch up and moan, because Raylan’s rubbing him with his palm through his jeans.

“Now, if you want me to smack _you_...” His hand is frustratingly light and not touching him hard enough anymore. “Might be persuaded. If you said it nice. Asked me. Said _please_.”

Tim grabs Raylan’s hair with his free hand and pulls, so he can get Raylan’s attention. “Please, smack me.”

Raylan looks briefly surprised, and then disappointed that it was so easy. That makes Tim laugh, breathlessly, pushing up against Raylan’s hand on his cock. “I don’t have a problem asking for things I want.” Raylan’s eyebrows go up and he gives him an _oh, really?_ look. Tim clears his throat. “Eventually. Look, just -- please?”

Raylan’s eyes go all dark and before Tim can even prepare himself, Raylan smacks him across the face. And it feels just like thought it would, his face stings and the jolt rattles through him, discordant and jarring. Raylan’s hand is in his jeans, sliding beneath his boxers. “Ask me again.”

“Please --” It’s only hard the second time because Tim can’t breathe in enough air to make words instead of broken, disjointed sounds.

Raylan smacks him again. Tim is very close and his head is clear of all the clutter and darkness, and he grabs at Raylan and pulls him down to kiss him. He’s getting the hang of this part, figuring out that Raylan likes it rough and wants Tim to bite and shove at him, fight it without really wanting to get away.

Raylan sits back on his heels and pulls Tim’s jeans down his hips enough to free his cock. His eyes glitter as he looks at Tim. “You want my mouth on you?”

All he can manage to do is nod.

Raylan lowers his head and starts biting him, from his mouth to his neck and down his chest, his stomach. When he takes Tim in his mouth, he grabs Tim’s hand and puts it in his hair, and Tim grabs onto the headboard with the other. Raylan smacks him on the thigh and Tim blinks down at him, his hips moving practically of their own volition, his cock moving in and out of Raylan’s hot, wet mouth.

Raylan’s smirking up at him just like Tim knew he would, and then chokes and that’s it, Tim’s done, he’s coming hard in Raylan’s mouth and he hopes he wasn’t supposed to ask first.

* * *  
After he catches his breath, Tim pushes Raylan down on his back kisses him like he remembers Raylan kissed Boyd, and then he asks Raylan to show him how to do that to him like he wants, like he likes.

Raylan is bossy and he definitely likes giving instructions, he gets all into it and his hands are rough on Tim’s shoulders and in his hair, and Tim’s clumsy with it at first but he’s good at following instructions so he gets the hang of it pretty quick. He’s fascinated at how Raylan looks, sprawled out on the bed with his jeans undone and his white undershirt still on, an arm thrown over his eyes and his voice low and rough and encouraging.

He chokes a few times but it seems to be something Raylan likes, so he doesn’t try and stop it from happening. He’s not planning on moving or stopping or anything but Raylan pulls him off before he’s finished and then he’s on top of him again, kissing him hotly and pinning him down and rubbing up against his hip. He comes and bites Tim on the shoulder, harder than anyone’s ever done before and doesn’t stop until his hips stop twitching and he presses his face into Tim’s shoulder, fighting for breath.

Tim waits for the awkward part, where Crowder comes in and then he has to go back to his own room, bitten and marked up like he is, sticky and sweaty and in need of a shower.

Raylan moves eventually and sprawls on his back with a really smug grin, turning it on Tim. “So,” he says, idly rubbing a hand on Tim’s chest, tracing fingers over the bruise forming on his shoulder. “How was that?”

“Yeah, it was okay,” Tim says, deadpan. “I mean, I guess you’re pretty good at it.”

Raylan rolls his eyes and punches him on the shoulder. “I’m really good at it.” His smile turns sly. “So’s Boyd.”

Tim has no idea what to say to that. _And now the awkward part starts._ “You aren’t going to tell me now that you were lying and he’s all pissed off, right?” He sits up, looking around for his clothes. They’re all very far away.

Tim lays down again. Fuck it.

Raylan shakes his head. He doesn’t even try to move. “No. Jesus, Tim, you think I’d cheat on him with him _downstairs_? And let you go out in the snow while you had the plague or whatever the fuck. Wow. Why’d you want to go to bed with me, again?”

Tim shrugs, fighting a smile and succeeding. “Maybe it was the hat.” He’s not as successful with the yawn.

Raylan sees that and squints at him, everything he’s feeling plain as day on his face. “Oh. Huh. I didn’t think past the part where we got in bed.”

“I, for one, am shocked to hear you say that, Raylan. And don’t worry about it, I can go back to my room.” Tim doesn’t want this to be weird. He also doesn’t want to be finished, and he’s not sure what to do about that. It’s late. He should really go to bed and let Crowder have his bed -- and his boyfriend -- back.

Raylan, apparently, has other ideas. He leans over and kisses Tim with a slow, drugging heat. “Don’t remember sayin’ we were done, Gutterson.”

“Oh,” Tim says, nodding very seriously. “In that case, I guess I’ll stick around.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Raylan is inexhaustible, Boyd is enigmatic, and Tim is probably in trouble.

The thing about going to bed with Raylan is that once there, it’s really hard to get _out_ of it.

Or maybe Tim’s just gone for too long without sex, and this is all new and it’s hot and Raylan’s really good at it. That’s definitely part of it. And every time Tim feels a little weird about Crowder downstairs doing...whatever he’s doing, Raylan pins him down and talks to him about how many times him and Crowder fucked while Tim was sick (“you were asleep in front of the television, what were we supposed to do?”) and how much Boyd would like hearing about all of this and how Tim was really good deep-throating cock.

It’s hard to get worked up about that when you’re so busy...getting worked up. 

At one point Tim does get up --- to go get water, or juice, or some kind of fluid-replenishing beverage -- and finds Crowder doing a crossword puzzle at the counter. Tim’s wearing Raylan’s sweatpants and no shirt, and if he’s had a stranger moment in his life, he can’t think of what it could be. He turns six shades of red at Crowder’s appraising, frank stare and then goes to hide behind the fridge when Crowder yells out, “Nice job, Raylan, but I can still see some skin you ain’t bitten yet.”

“I need some fucking coffee first,” Raylan hollers from down the hall. “Gutterson, bring me some coffee.”

“I don’t think this is normal,” Tim tells the orange juice, which is mostly gone. Damn it. He eyes the peppermint creamer and then sighs, pulls it out of the fridge. “Shhh,” he says to Boyd, who just grins at him and goes back to his crossword without a word.

Before he takes the coffee back -- and why the hell is he even doing this? -- to the bedroom, Tim clears his throat and tries to come up with a way to ask Boyd what he wants to ask.

Boyd looks up and his eyes run down Tim, from his messy hair to his swollen mouth, the burn on his face because Raylan’s lazy and needs to shave, the bites and the suspicious streaks on his stomach that could be blood or something else or both. When he meets Tim’s eyes again, his own are brilliant like emeralds, like the day Tim first noticed they were green.

“I don’t mind,” Boyd says, softly. “Trust me, Timothy, if I didn’t want you beneath him you wouldn’t be there.” It sounds like he’s purring and it’s weirdly hot and goddamn it, no, Tim is not this much of a sex fiend, is he?

“Did you need a break?” Tim asks, trying for wry humor. “Because I can see how you might need a break.” 

Boyd’s smile is all devilish charm. “Maybe _he_ did,” he says, and slides off the barstool. “Call me if you need to tag out.” 

Tim can hear him laughing on his way downstairs.

He stands there, in the kitchen, holding the mug of coffee for a few minutes until Raylan yells at him to get in there or he’s going to take a nap. Tim shakes his head and pads back into the bedroom, where Raylan’s hands are on him the second he puts the coffee mug down on the dresser. 

The coffee is cold by the time Raylan gets up to drink it. Tim watches him pour it down the sink -- which, why the fuck did he make it in the first place? -- and fill it up with water from the faucet. He proceeds to drink it down in thirsty gulps, mug after mug of it, water running down his chest and into the waistband of his unbuttoned, unzipped jeans.

Fuck, that’s not _fair_. 

He and Raylan take a shower, and Tim gets on his knees and sucks him off, the tile hard and uncomfortable and he doesn’t care at all. When they get out of the shower, Raylan pushes him, naked and still wet, up against the wall in the bedroom. Then he gets on _his_ knees, and while Tim stares down at him, already at a loss for breath, Raylan grins up at him with that cocky, self-assured smile of his and laughs.

“Figured you probably earned it,” he says, and then slides his mouth over Tim’s cock. And it’s better than watching, alone and cold and ashamed on the couch. That’s for damn sure.

It’s also when his reprieve ends, and when the images he’s kept at bay coming rushing back with a vengeance -- and they skip over the usual suspects until he’s staring at Raylan and moaning and seeing a gun in Raylan’s mouth, his sniper rifle, and Raylan’s sucking it with the same look he has on his face right now, cocky and unafraid like he always is. And it doesn’t matter that Tim’s threatening to pull the trigger because Raylan doesn’t stop.

The fantasy blends into reality, so much so that when Tim comes he feels his fingers twitch like they’re pulling an imaginary trigger -- and it sharpens everything to a nearly unbearable degree and he’s loud with it, louder than he’s been so far with Raylan and maybe ever. The noise he makes is either one of pleasure or fear, he can’t tell which.

He’s not sure he wants to, either.

* * *  
The roads are supposed to be cleared in two days.

One the one hand, Tim will be glad to get home because he’d really, really like to stop wearing the same few pairs of clothes -- he is so looking forward to wearing a completely different Army sweatshirt, it’s not even funny. And he really needs to figure out how he’s supposed to account for the nearly two weeks he’s been gone from the office. Does he take overtime? Sick time? Vacation?

Personal days?

Tim’s standing on the back porch, drinking a cup of coffee and watching as the sun slips further down below the mountains. The snow is still there, and it sure doesn’t look to him like it’s clearing up but he supposes he’ll have to trust the experts. 

Raylan is suddenly behind him, kissing at his neck. Tim is so startled he nearly drops his coffee. He’s not sure why it surprises him that Raylan’s so...handsy, because it shouldn’t. Raylan’s always been one to invade personal space and not think anything of it. 

“If you get another fever, Gutterson, that’s gonna be real inconvenient.” Raylan’s voice is a rough growl, his hands settling at Tim’s hips.

“You’re maybe a sex addict, Givens,” Tim tells him, looking over his shoulder. “They have classes for that.”

“I don’t need to go to class.” Raylan bites his ear. “M’already good at it.”

Tim rolls his eyes skyward. “Okay, then you’re a narcissist. They’ve probably got classes for that, too.”

Raylan’s mouth is very warm in the coolness of the late afternoon, moving slowly on his neck. “How many narcissists does it take to change a lightbulb?”

“Raylan,” Tim groans, and there’s a little more to that than just exasperation -- Raylan’s pushing against him, suggestive and his hands are moving beneath Tim’s sweatshirt, seeking skin. “I’m guessing it’s one?”

“Yup. One to hold it still while the world revolves around him.” Raylan laughs at his own joke, his breath against Tim’s ear making him shiver.

“That was awful.”

“Boyd told me that one.”

“Do not blame your terrible puns on me, Raylan,” Boyd drawls, walking out to join them. Tim can’t help the way he tenses and tries to slightly edge away from Raylan. When a guy’s making out with you and his boyfriend shows up, it just seems like the polite thing to do. 

Raylan, being Raylan, just follows him and keeps doing terrible things to his neck. “Hey, we should use that hot tub,” Raylan says, moving back enough to give Tim a slight bit of room. “It was on the list of amenities, damn it.”

“I didn’t even know there was one.” Tim looks over and sees the hot tub, or what he assumes is a hot tub beneath the pile of snow. “I’m not sure it’s worth clearing the snow off of it. And hey, three guys in a hot tub?” Tim eyes it dubiously, unsure what he thinks about that. “That seems kinda...weird.”

“Yes, we’d hate anyone to get the wrong idea.” Raylan hits him lightly on the side of the head. “Well, now that you said that I want to do it even _more_.”

“Crowder, I’m starting to have some small bit of sympathy for you.”

“Appreciate that, Timothy.” Boyd turns so that he’s leaning with his back to the railing. He grins at Raylan, sudden and bright. “You realize you owe me a damn good present when it’s my birthday, Raylan, don’t you?”

Raylan moves away and over to Boyd, leans in and traps him there with his hands on the railing. He doesn’t touch Boyd nearly as much, but Tim realizes in that moment that Raylan overwhelms the other man in a completely different way. “You think so, huh.”

Boyd just sips his coffee. He looks amused.

“I’ll take you to Florida,” Raylan tells him. 

“There’ll probably be a hurricane,” Boyd drawls, making Tim laugh. 

“That would sure _blow_ ,” Raylan offers, then scowls when neither of them laugh. “You don’t get to laugh at Boyd’s jokes and not mine, Tim. That ain’t how it works, I’m the one you’re sleeping with.” 

For some reason that makes Tim look very interestedly at his mug of coffee. It’s from someplace called the Mysterious Mansion. He wonders what this place could be called. Coitus Cabin? Bi-Curious Cabin? Tim hurriedly takes a sip to keep himself from saying that out loud. He’ll keep his bad jokes to himself, thank you very much.

Raylan goes back inside, but not before he ruffles Tim’s hair and says, “You’ve had enough of a break, cowboy.” Then he looks at Boyd with some unreadable expression, and they have a creepy moment of conversation where neither of them says anything. Boyd nods, and Raylan shrugs. 

“Sorry to eavesdrop on your conversation,” Tim says. “I can go in the other room if you want to cryptically gesture in private.”

“Nope. But you can go in the other room and suck me off,” Raylan tells him, then yanks him in and kisses him until Tim can’t remember the sarcastic thing he was going to say in response.

“Does he say that stuff a lot?” Tim asks Boyd, rubbing absently at his mouth. “And does he just not shave to be a dick?”

Boyd smiles his devil’s smile at Tim, all charm. “He has a tendency to be a little focused, maybe you’ve noticed.”

Tim snorts and finishes his coffee, but he doesn’t go inside just yet. “How come this doesn’t bother you?”

Boyd turns so he’s standing the same way as Tim, leaning against the railing and looking out at the mountain. “How come it don’t bother _you_?”

Tim shrugs. “I figure if it bothered you it wouldn’t have happened. So if you don’t care, why should I?” That’s maybe not the entire truth, but it’s close enough.

“All right.” Boyd is relaxed, practically draped over the railing. “And I didn’t say I didn’t _care_ , did I?”

“Do you?”

Boyd’s eyes meet his for a minute. They’re like mirrors, but the kind you can’t see behind. The kind you see in interrogation rooms, where you know there’s something else behind them but you don’t know what that might be. “Of course I _care_ , Timothy. I think what you are asking me is why I ain’t jealous.”

“Sure, I guess that’s good enough.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that you can’t escape your true nature. Oh, you can try, that’s true enough -- you can run off to the shores and sunlight of Miami, or you can hide away in the darkness of the mines, but it don’t matter. Sooner or later, it’s gonna find you.” Boyd’s quiet for a moment, staring out at the sweeping mountain vista. “I figured that seein’ as how I ain’t fightin’ mine, I couldn’t rightly expect anyone else to fight theirs, could I?”

“So you’re saying...Raylan’s true nature is that he’s an easy slut?”

Boyd gives a surprised, sharp bark of laughter that is possibly the most genuine reaction Tim’s ever seen from the man. “Most assuredly, but it’s more that Raylan lives in a land where I am most assuredly a stranger, and by a code I don’t really understand.”

“The law?” Tim asks wryly. “Kidding.” Well, he’s mostly kidding.

Boyd cuts his eyes over at him, that same Cheshire smile that says nothing playing at the corners of his mouth. “In my world, Timothy, it ain’t quite so easy. There are men with badges who’ve put more of their own in the ground than half of Harlan’s criminal population _combined_.”

“Well, to be honest, Boyd, some of them just aren’t very good with guns. So it’s probably not for lack of trying.”

Boyd grin is full of teeth. “That’s a true fact. But Raylan, he lives like the world is black and white and there ain’t nothin’ in between. Raylan is a man of his convictions, and they ain’t likely to ever change.”

“I’m not sure I get why this means it’s okay he’s sleeping with me.”

“Do you understand what kind of...now I hesitate to use this word because it makes me feel a little queasy, myself, but seein’ as how we are apparently havin’ a heart-to-heart I suppose I have no other choice. Do you understand what kind of _feelings_ Raylan must carry for yours truly in order to overlook that code he’s etched into his very _soul_ , the one that says I am a thing to be hunted, locked up or put down? The one that made him raise his gun and put a bullet in my heart -- or as close to it as the fates fancied to allow? Because I surely do not suspect those feelings are ones easily swayed, Mr. Gutterson -- do you?”

Tim stares at him, narrow-eyed and still, thinking about what he just said. “You’re saying that if Raylan wants you despite the fact you’re...you...that it doesn’t matter who else he sleeps with? What if he gets that intense about someone else?”

Boyd’s gaze is sharp, penetrating. “You think that man is gonna run out of intensity any time soon?” Boyd rolls his eyes. “I am content with what I have. And I don’t know that I am prepared to have all of Raylan Givens’ intensity and attention focused squarely on me, because maybe you noticed but he and I don’t have the most complimentary of careers.”

Tim’s eyebrows go up at that. “You’re saying it’s good if he’s distracted so you can run your hillbilly criminal empire?”

“That would indeed be what I am sayin’, Timothy.”

“Huh.” Tim blinks, shaking his head and he smiles, a little ruefully. “You know, I didn’t really expect you to admit that quite so easy, Boyd.”

“It ain’t the only reason, but you and I both know there’s truth to it, so why lie?”

 _Because I think you lie to people just to see if you can make them believe you._ Tim can definitely see how Boyd manages to persuade other people to do what he wants. He’s as good a speaker as Tim’s ever heard, and there’s a natural quality to it that is dangerously convincing.

“You know, you’re pretty good at making people think you’re a man of your convictions, too.” Tim’s eyes fall briefly on Boyd’s shoulder, where that abhorrent tattoo is inked in his skin.

“I’m a much better liar than Raylan is.” Boyd says, unapologetic.

“There are children who are better liars than Raylan,” Tim says flatly. The sun is fading, taking the warmth with it and causing him to shiver. “And if you’re so good at lying, why the hell should I believe anything you just said?” 

“Because you want to.” Boyd’s answer is soft-spoken, but it feels like he just walked over and punched Tim in the gut on his way back inside the house. 

Tim watches him go, realizing for the first time just how dangerous Boyd Crowder really is.


End file.
